Part Right, Half Wrong, a Third Crazy
by Save the Rave
Summary: AU. Meet Alfred Jones, a fairly questionable socialite. And now meet Matthew Williams, a depressed nobody that's working two and a half jobs to make ends meet and is failing at it. Miserably. This is not going to be pretty. Full summary and warning inside. Humour/Angst/Romance
1. Chapter 1

**Full Summary: **(AU setting) Meet Alfred F. Jones, a twenty-six-year-old cokehead socialite that's still living off of Daddy's trust fund. This man knows how to party, can speak seven languages, and is one amazing criminal prosecutor - when he doesn't have a hang-over from that equally amazing party in Bangkok last weekend. He's the kind of guy whose people have people. He's also the kind of guy that needs a reality check via a swift kick to the balls. And there are a few people that would love to give it to him.

And then there's Matthew. Poor, pathetic, pitiable Matthew Williams. Twenty-one, living in a one-room apartment he can barely afford, in the worst end of town nonetheless, and struggling with two and a half jobs to try and make ends meet. He's barely succeeding; hot water is a gift from his landlord four times a week, for half an hour at a time, and he doesn't remember the last time he watched television other than the news or CBC. Needless to say, he's depressed. _Very_ depressed. Hell, the kid doesn't even have the time to fit suicide into his schedule (not to say he hasn't tried, though, cause he has. 82 times, actually).

What he needs, in short, is a miracle. Not some arrogant, coked-up lawyer worming his way into an already stressful life that has _already_ ran smack into a brick wall, going at 120km/h. What Alfred needs, as already stated, is a swift kick to the scrotum to make him see that, "Oh, hey, Yankee! You're not the only one that needs oxygen this side of the South Pole!" And he doesn't realize that the one to give him this reality check will be a young man, living an obscure life well below the poverty line. Alfred is full of himself, Matthew doesn't have a shred of self-esteem to his name these days. Things can only go uphill from here, right? Things will get better, right?

Not a chance; Murphy's Law exists for a reason, after all.

**Warnings: **Language. Language. Language. Language. And more language. Oh, also drugs, alcoholism, occasional violence, more drugs (including prescription drug abuse), 10,000 different ways to commit suicide, and a little bit of sex. Excessive amounts of nosebleed-inducing fluff every now and again, too. Did I mention there's going to be _language_?

Hey there, my lovelies! Just a little side-project while I'm working on Civil Unrest; I've had this idea in mind for a month or two now, but I started work on the other one first - my child, kolkolkol - and this plot took the backseat, really. But I haven't been able to get rid of the idea, and well, I think I'll explode if I don't get this down and out for reading anytime soon. Now, this story is not priority. It will be finished, but it might take a while until I get Civil Unrest finished. Updates will be kind of random and sporadic, but it **will **be finished. And now, on with the show, eh?

**CHAPTER ONE.**

_In which we meet Matthew, a young man that just really needs a hug._

There were not very many things that he was certain of anymore these days. Nothing was definite anymore, and he did not know which way to turn when seeking a firm reason. Whether that be his reason for living - or, as his only relative liked to say, in that stupidly charming voice of his: his _raison d'être _- or it be his reason for at least making the life-changing pilgrimage of getting out of the damn bed first thing in the morning.

He didn't know shit these days, that was what it was coming out to be.

Life sucked, and that was the one thing the young man was completely certain of. The only thing he _cared_ to be certain of.

Deep blue eyes, rimmed red with sheer exhaustion, slowly opened and he grumbled, immediately pulling his thick quilt up over his head of messy, curly blonde hair, wanting only to bury himself further into the stiff mattress he slept on (most of the time). It was too damn cold to be functioning at this hour, he surmised darkly. Curling in further upon himself, eyes fluttering shut, he gave a soft snuffing sound through his nose, felt his body begin to relax pleasantly and, right as he found that _perfectly comfortable spot on the mattress-_

The alarm clock started ringing.

Flinging the blankets down over his head, a prolonged groan escaped thin, worry-bitten lips as he glowered at the clock that was shifting ever-so-slightly on the wooden surface of his bedside table. That ringing was ear-piercing, especially when it was only seven in the morning and he had slept for no more than three hours, if he was lucky.

It should be known that he is _not_ a lucky man.

Matthew Williams, age twenty-one - and going on twenty-two in seven months, nineteen days, four hours, fifty-one minutes and sixteen seconds - did not know the definition of the word luck. It had never been applied to him in his entire life, either. Except for when he got to play the lead in a preschool play, but that's a different kind of luck.

There's luck, there's dumb luck, and then there's survival.

He didn't fit into any of those previously mentioned categories, anyways.

Reaching out, squirming against the heavy blankets that pooled at his thin hips, he slammed his hand down on the ringing clock, silencing it rather effectively. Indigo eyes fluttered shut and he heaved a sigh. Sunday. The proverbial day of rest. And he had, as of nine am in the glorious goddamn morning, fourteen hours of work lying ahead of him. Even the mere thought of it made him want to cry, amputate his feet and see if he could apply for worker's compensation.

"_So, Sir, what happened here?_" the government official would ask him, absolutely horrified at the bloody stumps in the place of what were once size eight feet.

"_Well, you see, Sir, it's like this: I got in a fight with a shopping cart at the grocery store, and well, I lost pretty badly. Do you think you might be able to help me out?"_ Matthew would inquire in that soft, whispery, barely-there voice of his.

The government official would think about it for a moment or two, frown thoughtfully, then stamp a big fat **REJECTED **on the sheet before turning him towards the door with a smile, not even bothering to help him hobble all the way to elevator (which would be, conveniently, out of service).

And then he would have to spend the rest of his days living in a gutter and doing heroin with the hobos that could be doctors but simply chose to say, 'Fuck society, I live for anarchy!'

_**THE FREAKING END**_.

Matthew scowled at his bitter thoughts, bringing himself up slowly into a hunched sitting position, rubbing his face with shaking hands. His room was as cold as hell, colder even. Picking the blanket up off the bed, he wrapped it around his shoulders as he slid from the mattress, various joints in his body making loud, sharp popping noises of protest as joints and cartilage cracked and slid back into their proper place. God, did he ever hate the process of first waking up in the morning: the grogginess that overtook him, the dizziness of going upright for the first time in a few hours - even if he had barely slept in the first place, it always affected him (low blood pressure or something shitty and ridiculous like that) - and then the coldness that he was slowly getting accustomed to.

Oh, and being practically blind until he managed to find his glasses and slip them on, but that was the only thing that was so easy to remedy.

Finding said pair of ocular lenses, he placed them upon the bridge of a delicate nose before pushing them up with the pad of his thumb, running a hand through his hair to get the tangles out of the gentle curls that cascaded downwards to frame around a pale, narrow face. Once it was heart-shaped, his cheeks soft with a slight round shape to them, but now it was gaunt, and he appeared sickly with exhaustion, with illness, shadows around brilliant indigo eyes that screamed he needed to have a mild coma for himself, and to hurry up and just do it to get it over with. Comas were nice. Very nice. Nice, nice, nice. But he wasn't sick, he mentally reasoned with the lamp on his bedside. Just tired; he didn't consider needing Valium for major anxiety problems a sickness. It just made him … want to sleep. For a long time.

Padding silently out of his bedroom and into the living room, he yawned, paused, and tightened the blanket around his body, not wanting it to slip down; it was just too cold yet, and it was far too early in the year to consider turning the heat on - then again, there probably wasn't any oil left in the tank outside, not that he could afford to replace it. So he would make due with the bitter cold of his apartment, because he had his blanket, and as long he had his blanket, he would be just fine. Walking around in a ratty pair of boxers would suck, and would make him feel awkward, even if he was the only person to have ever set foot inside his apartment, beside the occasional repair man, since he had started to rent the place.

A sudden chugging sound, squealing pipes in the background, rang out through the previously dead-silent apartment. Glancing at the clock on the wall, he blinked once, twice, and then made a dash for the kitchen as if hell was nipping at his heels.

He had hot water for the next half an hour, and he needed to take advantage of it while he could - which meant filling up the sink with scalding hot water so he could do the dishes, and then while those dishes were soaking, doing his best to get a full shower before the water either ran out, the pipes clogged or the water itself was turned off on him. Needless to say, he had to move fast if he wanted to get anything done before he went to work for the day … and the evening.

Yawning as he shuffled over to the sink, letting the blanket fall to the floor with a whimper as ice-cold air hit his pale, bare skin, he started quickly piling dishes from the day before and the day before that into the sink, stacking them as neatly as he possibly could. Mind now, there wasn't very much there in terms of what needed to be washed - two plates, three glasses and a mug, two pans and one pot - but still, just because he had become the definition of a welfare case before he was even legal age in America, it didn't mean he was going to allow himself to rot away in a dirty home, not like some of the individuals he knew in what was more or less a slum area in the American state he lived in.

Water coming out of the pipes was, as it started to heat up, dark in colour from the rust in the pipes. A grimace crossed Matthew's young face, but he said nothing - speaking to yourself was ridiculous, anyways - as he let the water pour from the tap, watching it turn clear, watching steam slowly begin to rise from it. He poured a dollop of soap in, plugged the drain and let it fill up, bringing the water all the way up to the brim before shutting it off, suds spilling down over the side of the counter as he did so, nearly slipping on the puddle forming on the floor and landing face-first into the water-filled sink. Catching himself on the edge, he bit back a startled, and what would be decidedly girly, shriek.

Five minutes later, he was in the shower, huddling under a rain if scalding hot water, blessedly hot water, scrubbing furiously at his hair and trying to wash his body all at the same time so he could have a few minutes to just stand there under the water, letting the strained muscles in his body relax and turn to the proverbial sacks of useless goop they usually were when he slept. Sometimes. If he slept in his bed, they probably weren't. When he slept on the sofa or the floor (given the fact that it left him with a fucked neck for a day or two), he usually got a better sleep - and he didn't wake up with a bad back, which was the main thing

Ten minutes left of water, and Matthew's legs more or less gave out from beneath him, and he simply slumped down in the shell of the bathtub, enamel having been long-since stripped from the white porcelain tub, rust pooling down around the drain and faucet, mould curling around the bottom of the tub. He sighed contentedly, eyes fluttering shut as he inhaled the steam that came from it and, despite the uncomfortable position, his body was growing relaxed. So relaxed, in fact, that he could feel his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, getting closer and closer to falling back to sleep. A small part of his brain, the one that was ruined by Valium and life in general, wondered if sleeping in the tub would be a better spot than his bed, floor and sofa combined. Maybe it would; anything was better than a mattress that was five-years-old with springs sticking out of it and promoted a bad night's sleep. Maybe Sears or Wal-Mart could use that for a slogan one of these days, he could get royalties for it and buy himself his own, two-room apartment, get himself a pet dog, and a motorcycle. And a bathtub that wasn't falling apart, a 'fridge that didn't cut out, and a mattress he could actually sleep on and not wake up, feeling like an arthritic, ninety-year-old man that had it in every single joint of his body.

When the water started to fade away, the ebbing pulse turning into a pathetic trickle of water, Matthew sighed and hoisted himself up, pushing back his soaked hair, blinking the sleep that had reformed in his eyes back out. Legs trembled as he moved to sit down on the toilet before he gave a long yawn as his stomach growled viciously, demanding to be fed _before _it had to resort to eating itself - something that was bound to get ugly.

Hauling the blanket over his naked, still-wet body, Matthew padded from the bathroom back to the living room where he glanced at the clock on the wall. Seven-thirty am. He still had half an hour before he needed to get the bus to work in order to be there for nine, for the start of his shift at the local grocery store where he worked the occasional cash shift, but for the most part where he worked as a stock boy, putting new groceries on the shelves for eight hours a day. Then, from there, he would change into a pair of jeans and a sweater, to go to work for six until twelve that night at a local restaurant as a dish washer that didn't even make minimum wage.

But he got free food, so he had to keep the job.

Then there was that other half-job, where he went and worked the night shift at a bakery once a week, cleaning the building from top to bottom in a twelve hour shift, every Friday night after he got off work from the diner. Saturdays were the only day he would take off in the run of the week, the only time he got more than three hours sleep - because he could get seven or eight if he tried hard enough.

Like, really goddamn hard.

That usually meant taking an extra Valium, but if that was what it took, then so be it.

He could feel tears welling up in his eyes as he scrubbed the dishes, blanket knotted at his slim, bony hips so he wasn't totally exposed. A soft, watery sigh escaped him, and he swiped at his eyes, curses quickly falling from his lips as dish detergent stung his eyes. "Oh, fucking fuck for the love of God," Matthew yelped, squinting and lunging for a hand towel - nearly crashing into the cupboard doors as he did so. Roughly wiping his face, the soap from his eyes, the young Canadian living in America sighed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were burning now, just lovely. He'd go into work, looking like he had been up all night - which wasn't that far from the truth in all actuality - and had been either watching movies like The Notebook, or had been smoking joint after joint after mother loving joint.

When he thought about it, lips dipping downwards, he kind of wished that's what it was.

Getting dish soap in your eyes was for pussies.

Standing, leaving the warm water standing as a testament, as if to say, "_Hey, fuckface, there actually IS hot water in this house! HAH!", _all despite the fact that, when he would return at one am after a shift from hell at the diner (thank heaven he was allowed to listen to his mp3 player while he was working, based on the fact that he simply did dishes and ate the leftovers he was given) the water in the sink would be tepid and cold from the dishes he had cleaned earlier.

Hands dried and quilt back up over his shoulders and clinging tightly to his pin thin frame, he plodded back to his bedroom to don his uniform for the day, and to stuff a change of clothes in his backpack for when he got off of work. Black jeans, a light green t-shirt and his name tag that read nothing more than: "MATTIE" in stupid, ugly-ass block letters that he hated and wanted to burn like cheap lumber in a methane-filled basement.

Then, expression going blank yet a pensive look in his bloodshot (fucking soap!) indigo eyes, he thought, _'Hmmm, methane. Sounds like it could be worth a try_.'

He mulled it over for a brief moment as he hauled his pants on, considered it as he tucked his shirt and brushed his wavy hair out with his fingers, and then decided against it as he shouldered his black fleece jacket, sneezing as he did so.

Methane might take too long, and it would probably be a little too hard to come across.

Well, the neighbours kids were little shit-filled brats, so maybe it wouldn't be _that _hard, really…

He shook his head tiredly, the room tilting slightly as he did so and then quickly glanced at his watch, and realized, with a startled curse, that if he dawdled any longer, he was going to miss the bus. Something like that meant he wouldn't be able to get to work until a good four hours into his assigned shift, and he could not afford to lose out on a day of work, even if he made no more than minimum wage. Every penny counted, despite having no idea what it was he was saving up for - only knowing the fact that it seemed like, every time he turned around, he was having to dip into his 'rainy day' fund in order to pay bills or go out and get something to eat when the hunger pains or sheer boredom got to be a little too much for him to handle.

Bouncing through his rather spartanly furnished apartment, slightly-damp hair bopping along with his every step, Matthew hopped over the sofa, slung his backpack across his shoulders and kicked on a broken down pair of sneakers that should have been retired when he was nineteen, not still in circulation when he was twenty-one.

Before leaving, he took one quick glance-about the apartment. Everything was in its place - high school graduation photo still hung on the wall, some of his paintings - paintings he longed to have put in a gallery, but just never had the time to even try - a few more pictures of his family. An old sofa set, well a mixed-and-matched sofa set he had bought at two separate garage sales, were placed in a comfortable fashion, a small television perched on a small table, and that was more or less it for his living room. A sigh escaped him. What he wouldn't give to be able to-

Ah_, fuck _it.

He turned on his heel, slammed the door shut so hard he heard the windows rattle in their frames, and quickly flipped all four locks into place before trotting down over the three flights of stairs attached to the fire escape that it usually took for him to get down from the top floor of the apartment building he lived in to ground level. He jumped the last six and landed on the concrete with a light thud, his barely-there weight making virtually no noise on impact. What he didn't like, though, was being able to count almost every rib. Well, it was either he paid his bills, or he had food to eat. He couldn't exactly pick the two of them and have both of them at the same time. Buying groceries had set him back nearly a month on his light bill, and he still hadn't even come close to catching up on it…

'_Oh, the benefits of malnourishment,_' Matthew thought dryly as he scooted across the street, dodging being nailed by a yellow taxi that came, inconveniently enough, tearing down the road the moment he set foot on the blacktop. '_I'd make an excellent thief if I ever wanted to go down that road of delinquency._'

Because popping extra Valium pills because it was fun didn't count for juvenile delinquency in his books. Only because he didn't have his priorities set straight, according to some of his co-workers.

Matthew Williams just liked to think that he was a little more scatter-brained than most.

Deftly stepping around puddles, avoiding the water that was running down from the overhang of a store, the young man slipped mutely into a bus shelter, glanced at his watch, and heaved a heavy, long sigh of relief. Indigo eyes relaxed around the edges, and a hardened mouth turned upwards in the smallest of smiles. He got there, and with five minutes to spare. Shifting the backpack on his shoulders, he sat down on the bench, crossed his legs, and brought his bag to his front, wrapping skinny arms around it as tightly as he possibly could - his life was more or less inside that bag: his wallet and bankcard, his bus pass, change of clothing, and a few of his books, including the university text book he had on accounting, the one his cousin had given him when he thought he would be going to a college in order to get a degree.

Funny how life turned itself around and kicked him in the teeth.

In no time the bus was there (almost driving past him, not having noticed him all bundled up at the bus stop, only slowing down when the driver saw that there was a young man sprinting after the bus and screeching for it to stop), and the young man flopped down in the back of the bus, panting heavily, drenched once more and shivering as he hauled his knees up to his chest. Oh, he could already see what this day was going to turn out to be like. He buried his nose into the crook between his two knees, biting on his lower lip and flickering his eyes about the practically empty city transport.

If anything, it was going to be a long day.

One that made him want to cry because it was just so damn long and brutal.

And he really had no idea, at the moment of realization on the bus, that rainy-day epiphany that made him want to come up with suicide option 91, how long of a day it really _was_ going to be for him. Cleaning up some kid's puke down isle three, the women's washroom after something … gross … happened in there. Those were all incidents that were very capable of ruining someone's day. _Especially _when that goddamn lawyer from Manhattan showed up, standing in the center of the spice isle with that usual '_I'm a dumbass, help me, please_!' look on his face that made sweet-tempered (for the most part) Matthew spit and snarl on the inside with the utmost rage.

Of _course, _he was the only employee in the isle at the time, and it wasn't like he could just turn around and walk away when the tall blonde smiled that dopey smile at him and waved him over with a drawling, southern 'hey!' to catch his attention.

While what Matthew really wanted to do was go down isle seven, the kitchen ware isle, and get himself one of those lovely cast iron frying pans to whack him senseless, that little intelligent part of him told him that was a bad idea and if he wanted to keep his job, he might as well go over and help this poor, defenceless, hopeless, _stupid, __arrogant__, __**bastardizing **_American lawyer that was probably one of the most regular customers they had in the entire establishment.

He said it was something to do with the fact that they had one of the best sections of organically grown and mass-produced organic cereals, cookies, ketchup and noodles.

Matthew figured it was because he was a pretentious ignoramus that wanted to support a good cause, despite the food cost what it would take him two hours or more to make, when there were far better causes around that needed supporting. Not some mass-producing, money-leeching 'organic' food company that claimed to be working towards a better future…

Not that he was bitter about it.

Not at all.

Forcing a smile to his lips, he looked just above the lawyer's eyes, not wanting to actually look him in the eye (really now, that was just awkward to do), Matthew sighed, "May I help you, Sir?"

"Ah, thanks for asking, kid!" the lawyer exclaimed, delighted, wearing a face-splitting grin. The Canadian kind of wanted to die a little on the inside, and not to mention his stomach was just growling viciously at him for having skipped breakfast and dinner the day before. "Y'see, I'm tryin' to find these steak spices. Real organic and good for you. So, I was wondering, do you have them?"

Giving him a once over and, with a wry smile, Matthew turned his indigo eyes to the rack of various spices and flavourings. "I'm sorry sir, but if there's none here on the shelves, than we're more than likely out of stock," he said, voice soft and just above a whisper, the way it usually was, "if you want, I can page the head of the grocery department to see if he can order it in for you?"

The lawyer tapped his foot a few times. "Well, I need it for tonight. No, no, tomorrow. Anyways, don't you guys have stock, like, out _back _that you can check for things?" the man asked, golden brow arched expectantly, "So can't you call someone to find out for me?"

"Oh, you mean that _magical land _of overstock beyond those big swinging doors where you can find basically _whatever the hell you want _because it's logical to find everything there because it's _out back_? Yeah, because we totally have everything, _even the things we don't carry ever, _back there, cause that's just what we do. It's magical, right?" Matthew rhetoricized sarcastically, the words just bubbling and spilling out of him before he even had a chance to register the fact that he was speaking out loud to this customer, this so-called important customer that could have his ass fired faster than God knew what else, not saying everything within the safe(r) confines of his head? He bit down hard on his lip, to the point that he tasted blood, as his face went white while the man, his exact height, started and stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.

Then he started to laugh, grinning that same, boyish grin, blue eyes dancing with delight. "Yeah, that place!" he chuckled, appearing absolutely thrilled, "Do you guys have any out there? Can someone go out and check there for me?"

Matthew blinked, expression going flat.

The guy had believed him.

Oh sweet mother of Jesus, _the man had actually believed what he had said_.

The urge to throttle him was suddenly rising, very dangerously and very, very quickly.

"No, we don't. Have a nice day," Matthew snapped, his patience fraying at the edges, turning sharply on his heel as he did his best not to stray to isle seven for that cast iron frying pan he so desperately wanted to slug that idiot that probably made a hundred grand a year with. He didn't turn around if he exited the isle, hands clenched tightly at his sides as he made his way to go to the 'magical warehouse of wonder and endless groceries, perishables included'. You know, the place where underage employees gathered around to smoke by the trash compactor and shoot up by the cardboard disposal. Very few men out there, in the magical warehouse, actually did their job, or at least did it properly.

Had Matthew turned around, he would have seen the lawyer watching him go, hands tucked into his pocket as he plucked a regular steak spice up off the rack - the one he had actually been looking for in the first place - with a soft smile on his face, an amused and somewhat admiring look upon his face as the younger, petit blonde man stalked away.

This was brought back full force again, this 'holy shit why is the day so long?' feeling, once ten pm hit, Matthew decided that it was a very long day, and he just wanted to throw himself under the path of an oncoming Soviet war tank filled with overfed American warmongers - suicide option number 93 - than have to deal with dishes from a party of twenty-three truckers.

Men were pigs, and that was his final answer, good-fucking-bye. The plates on the counter were stacked up to his shoulders, they were an utter mess, and because the kitchen's dishwasher was out of service (it had been for the past three years now, actually, and the owner was just too damn cheap to actually go about replacing it, the bastard), he had to wash every single plate, fork, knife, spoon, cup, pot, pan, obsessively, three times as directed by his employer, to make sure they were properly cleaned, and all with his bare hands because the rubber gloves they had had somehow gone missing.

Honestly, dish-washing was something that didn't bother the quiet Canadian boy; it was relaxing, he had his music, and it was something that wasn't very taxing. Six hours of standing at a sink washing dishes over and over until his shoulders ached from the steady, repetitive motions. But he liked it. The only thing he didn't like was getting paid only five dollars to do it, a whole $2.25 less than what the actual minimum wage was for the state of New York.

But he could live with that much, though; money was better than nothing, and every little bit counted.

Humming to himself, swaying his thin hips in time to the music blasting from the headphones attached to his mp3 player, Matthew tapped his feet and bobbed his head as he scrubbed one of the platters the waitresses used. The man nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand was settled down upon his shoulder, a strangled yelp leaving his chapped lips as a wet hand came to cling at the front of his sweater.

Katyusha stood there, eyes soft and smiling around the edges. "_Matvey," _the Ukrainian immigrant murmured softly, shifting her weight awkwardly, obviously feeling apologetic over startling the younger man so badly, "Would you be able to run out and get a plate that I forgot to get from table seventeen? I'm a little behind on the other orders an-"

"Say no more, Kat," Matthew said with a small smile and blush of his own, drying off his hands and pulling the headset off of his ears and letting it hand around his neck. "I'll go out and get it for you." The dish-washing grocery store clerk quickly turned the taps off as he flung the hand cloth over his shoulder, navigating his way through the large back-area of the diner, stepping around the two Russian men bickering at the stove and deep fryer. They were gesturing rather wildly with their spoons, so it couldn't have been that bad of an argument… hopefully.

Walking out through the doors, Matthew glanced around, noticed for the first time that evening that the place was finally close to dying off from the late evening rush hour, and headed over to table seventeen, a slight bounce in his step despite the ache in his lower back, in his thighs, shins and ankles. "Sorry 'bout that, Sir," he said quietly as he approached the table, leaning over and plucking the ceramic plates up off of the white cloth-covered surface. "I'll get these dishes out of your way for you, eh?"

"Oh, you're that kid from the grocery store!"

Matthew's body went rigid at the sound of the voice speaking to him, the same one belonging to the very same idiot he had pseudo-helped that morning, and he turned deep indigo eyes on the speaker.

It was the lawyer, alright. The man was dressed a little more causally than earlier, having ditched the Armani suit in favour for a pair of black denim pants, Italian loafers and a simple gray dress shirt. He wore a bright, friendly smile, blue eyes sparkling and white teeth flashing against lightly tanned skin. He looked rather charming, the young man hated to admit. But, then again, pricks were always nice on the outside.

Resisting the urge to take the man's beer and dump it all over his clothing, he gave a stiff smile and nodded. "Yes," he said crisply, still speaking softly. "I think I remember you from this morning. The gentleman looking for the steak spice?"

"Yeah, that was me, a'ight!" He seemed proud to admit this, and Matthew couldn't even imagine why he possibly was. Must be some lawyer things. Then, he extended his hand, "I'm Alfred Jones, and it's a pleasure to meet you."

"I could care less," Matthew Williams said in a cold voice, eyes narrowing as he pivoted on his heel, sauntering back over in the direction of the kitchen, to go back to the place from whence he came. A hand, however, latched onto the back of his sweater, tugging him backwards, causing him to almost drop the two plates and fall backwards onto the lawyer named Alfred Jones.

"Well, the funny thing is, I could probably care more, so I'd like to have a name to call you by, instead of kid. Cause calling you 'Kid' is just rude, ammirite?" he asked with a playful grin, peering at the younger man over the frames of his glasses.

Squirming and pushing his way out of the lawyer's lap (which was where he had landed, unfortunately), Matthew staggered to his feet, giving him a scathing look. "Matthew," he spat before turning once more, this time walking towards the kitchen with a little more purpose than the first time around.

This guy was a _creep._

'Alfred' leaned back in his chair, watching the young man, 'Matthew' head back towards the kitchen, a soft smile on his face, one similar to the expression he wore earlier on in the day. It was always nice to have a name to go along with a pretty face like that kid's.

Names were always a nice way to start.

And as Matthew returned to the kitchen, fighting back the urge to throw himself in the deep fryer and turn it on the highest setting (94), he slammed the plates down in the sink, praying for the night to be over, so he could go home and get back into bed and just sleep. This day just needed to be over with, and as soon as possible. Even though he knew that tomorrow would more than likely be the exact same as the day before, and the day before that…

Oh God, life was _shit._

And he had to do this for the rest of his life?

So not fair.

At all.

* * *

Hurrhurrhurr, this is going to be a fun story to write, I think. There aren't going to be too many characters from APH included in this, but you'll definitely know who they are when they get involved! Hopefully this story isn't too stupid for you guys. xD Please leave a review to tell me what you think, and thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO.**

_In which we meet Alfred, who is a … well … he's, uhm … oh, just see for yourself, alright?_

"Oi, Alfred!" The voice that called out to him from across the large marble hallway was sharp and British, who was dressed rather sharply beneath a long black judge's cloak and that approached him with quick rapid strides, ducking in and around news reporters from various news and radio stations as well as newspapers that were being ushered out of the court house by police officers, was the man that the voice belonged to. The man being called out to wasn't quite trying to avoid the ruckus building in the large, cathedral-esque space, considering he was the cause of it. He smirked knowingly. Critical green eyes met with his smiling blue ones and, from the look of utter humiliation and ire on his face, it was easy to tell that Alfred was in for the ear-boxing of a century. Which was a very common occurrence; someone had to attempt keeping him grounded, even if it was as futile as telling a bunch of angry Muslims to get along with a bunch of even angrier Hindus - you could just called the green-eyed, seething man Ghandi if you wanted to, he was just a little less passive and a lot more aggressive in his methods of crowd control.

Proceeding to grab him by the upper arm, hauling themselves out of the view of the public eye, Alfred F. Jones was hauled down a hall and into a side room in the court house, usually used by families with small children attending a court hearing and they didn't quite want their young children exposed to the works of the justice system for which the two men served. Forcefully shoving Alfred into the room, slamming the door behind them and locking it, the Briton stood facing the door for a few moments, body tense and taking deep breaths. The American, on the other hand, simply flopped down onto the shabby sofa in the room, stretching off and sticking a cigarette between his lips despite the 'No Smoking' sign (which he pointedly smiled at as he lit up).

Then the Brit finally rounded on him, crimson-cheeked and snarling, "I cannot believe you. I cannot _fucking _believe you."

A golden eyebrow arched, and Alfred made a rolling gesture with his hands, wanting his pseudo-friend to embellish on his words at least a little bit.

Spluttering, the green-eyed man of an elfin height approached him, grabbed the cigarette out of the lawyer's mouth (receiving a shout of protest) and went over to the window, which he tossed it out of. "You called the _defence attorney _a two-bit _slag _in front of the entire proceedings and live media broadcasting_, _for the love of fuck!"

The lawyer shook his head slowly in a scolding manner, rolling his eyes, making his elder splutter angrily. He opened his mouth to speak, but a hand was held up, stopping the tiny, elfin blonde from saying anything. Instead, the Briton chose to growl, but blessedly enough, said nothing as he wordlessly directed and simply gestured with his hands for the New Yorker to actually start talking instead of giving him that stupid smile. "_Actually, _Arthur," Alfred said, smirking, "I didn't call her a slag, as you charmingly put it in your silly little Limey nuances, I actually called her a sl-"

"Don't you _dare_ say it," Arthur Kirkland, the lawyer's companion, elder half-brother and the judge of the case, hissed in warning.

"She was a sl-"

Kirkland snarled viciously now, looking one step below psychotic, and just one above homicidal. "Alfred, I am _warning you_ that if you dare to so much as utter that vile word I'll-"

"_**SLUT.**__"_

The word echoed throughout the room.

He looked to be rather proud of himself.

A green eye spasmed beneath a bushy eyebrow.

"I'm going to rip your balls off. _Slowly._"

"Said she was a slut that had no problem spreading her legs for anyone that looked her way and promised her ten dollars a blow," Alfred chirped pleasantly, spreading his own legs and giving a lewd gesture with his hips as if to prove his point.

Rubbing his face as he wore a look of disgust, slumping down in an arm chair, Arthur snarled beneath his breath, long and vile curses escaping his lips. "You caused a fucking _mistrial_," Arthur spat heatedly, glaring at his younger sibling, baring his teeth in a snarl. "A high profile case for a serial murderer, and you fucked it up by calling that poor woman such slanderous, derogative terms on national television. I cannot believe the height of your-"

"Immaturity? Arrogance? Intelligence? Witty banter? Oh, please, darling brother, how you flatter me so," the DA said with a smirk, running a broad hand through sandy locks of hair, sniffing.

"I have half a mind to go to father and tell him about this and have you cut from both his current funding just for your existence - or lack of - and just have you cut from his will altogether," Arthur spat wrathfully, hands clenching into fists, radioactive eyes narrowed into hateful slits as he stared his younger half-brother down with a meaningful look of vindictiveness. "He would be absolutely disgusted by your behaviour, and I know you know that, and you know I hold it in my power to have you cut from every single thing he has your name attached to, you smarmy little bastard."

"Fuck the old man," Alfred spat, the good natured look leaving his eyes as he stood, back ramrod straight as he jammed his hands into his pockets. He looked positively disgusted, rage reflecting deep within blue depths and the way his upper lip curled in a poorly repressed snarl of hatred. "Anyway, we needed that mistrial."

Pointedly choosing the ignore the remark made about his father, the British judge working under American jurisdiction leant forward and frowned. "And why, pray tell, did we need a mistrial when we've been waiting years to blow this case out of the water and send that raping, murdering fucker to death row, hmm?"

Pacing the length of the room, Alfred shot his half-brother a dirty look. "For one," he said in a crisp voice, "the evidence isn't strong enough to convict that man. And before you say one fuckin' word, hear me out, Iggy. The guy has been pulling strings for what, five years now? Six? He's a former FBI agent, of all things, up on trial for murdering and raping seventeen women and three men in the summers between 2002 and 2007, and all the while he was still working for the Bureau in his spare time, and no one even thought of pinning it to him, despite the fact that all these individuals murdered were well-known acquaintances of his. That fucker has been pulling strings in the system, and you can even tell just from _looking _at him. I don't think that there's any way he was doing all that and keeping his day job while going around and slashing at undeserving individuals when the whiskey ran out. I mean, who's not to say that he doesn't have people in the jury paid off to set the conviction as not guilty? People are too fucking easy to manipulate, and if there's anyone I know that's a manipulative bastard, it's him; I met him enough times to be able to tell you that. But, seriously, we _need _this mistrial. We _need _more evidence in order to sink this bastard, and goddamn it, if I have to pull more shenanigans like that in order to do so, then I fucking well _will._"

Arthur was silent as he remained seated, arms folded across his chest, legs crossed primly but covered by his judge's robe. Then the man shook his head and leant backwards, shutting his eyes in exasperation. "I hate it when you're sober and attempting logic," the thirty-seven-year-old man snapped bitterly, glaring at the young lawyer across from him.

He didn't expect Alfred to laugh and answer with a, "Yeah, I hate being sober, too." But, he did. The tall, lanky blonde flopped back down onto the sofa and sighed, giving a sniff. "Anyway, we either risked that or a hung jury because man, I really don't think they were getting anywhere with the excessive deliberation you gave them."

Spluttering and straightening up, the Brit jabbed an accusatory finger towards his sibling. "Don't you dare hold me to blame for any of this," he snarled getting up from the arm chair and striding over to where the American lounged, sprawled off on the sofa. "This is a case involving incredibly sensitive subject matter, and all considerations for a potential verdict need to be handled delicately."

"He's a fucking murderer and rapist!" Alfred roared, standing up as well, coming to rest a whole head taller than his elder who out-aged him by eleven and a half years. "I just want to see the bastard jailed for life with no options for bail."

He didn't get a reply right away, which was surprising considering how quick-on-his-feet the elder of the two usually was when replying to anything said by him. Perhaps, this had caught the unshakable, never-faltering judge off-guard. "And that's why you want more time, isn't it?" Arthur said, suddenly much quieter than before, lips dipping into a pensive frown. "You won't just be satisfied with twenty-five if that's all the verdict comes out to be, will you?"

"No, no I won't be," he said quietly, staring at the floor, glaring at it hatefully, blue eyes burning like coals in their sockets. "I want life with no option for bail, do you understand? He fuckin' mutilated those women and those three guys. Raped them, killed them and mutilated them. It's disgusting, and I want him to _rot_ in a jail cell for what he's done." Not even giving his brother a moment to acknowledge or respond to what was said in such a harsh voice, in a moment of unusual abject loathing and rage, Alfred stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving the other in a stunned silence, wondering just when it was that his brother developed any sort of moral system.

Then, the door opened again, and Alfred poked his head around the frame, grinning. All traces of any of the previous anger were gone, blue eyes sparkling once more with that unusual zest he held for life, that face-splitting smile of his beaming full-force. "I'm going to the supermarket to get some lunch before I head to the Bobst to do some research for when this case re-opens, care to join me?"

For a moment, it appeared as though Arthur were going to turn him down, but instead he sighed and nodded slightly, undoing his judges cape, holding it draped over his arm. "Might as well," the thirty-seven-year-old said with a begrudging look of agreement. "But don't you make this turn out to be me babysitting you because you can't act like a sodding adult, are we clear?"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, _mummy,_" Alfred said, rolling his eyes insolently as he ducked back out from the door.

Trailing behind him for a moment before the man suddenly stopped, Arthur crashed into the taller man's back with a curse. "What the bloody fuck are you doing, Al?"

"We're going to get nailed by the press when we go out through those doors," Alfred said with a finger-jab in the direction of the front doors, where two bailiffs stood, holding their batons in their hands as they leaned against the court house doors, watching them with sharp, hawkish eyes. He gave a harsh sniff. "Get your game face on, bro, and hold your breath. Whose car are we taking?"

"We can take yours and then come back for mine later on; I'm parked all of five and a half blocks away because all the bloody spots were taken up by the time I got here."

'Beautiful' was the distracted reply he was given, and the two were quickly making their way towards the front doors, where the two bailiffs were now smirking and rolling their eyes. One of the two men, a short and stocky fellow with a mean expression in eyes so dark there seemed to be no pupils accompanying either iris, laughed harshly. Arthur was watching as his brother gave the officer a dark, loathing-filled glare and roughly shouldered his way past the two men, earning himself dirty looks in the process. The Briton said nothing, choosing to quietly excuse himself (his efforts were rewarded with an almost sympathetic nod of the head, from either of the men) as he quickly followed the younger man out into what was an obvious media circus.

Microphones were quickly pressed into their faces, primarily Alfred's, barrages of questions being flung about and at the young blonde, who stood there with a cool look of indifference upon his face as he gave a charmingly disarming smile - especially to the female reporters that were there.

"Do you have any comments to make about the mistrial you've caused this afternoon, Mr. Jones?" came the voice of a reporter, this one Alfred was able to make out came from CNN. Oh, well, might as well answer _his_ question as nicely as possible.

The lawyer replied by absently shrugging his shoulders, running his hand through his hair and giving the man a boyish smile. "I was doing my job, and it's a shame that it happened to turn out the way things did in the end," he said in an as apologetic voice as he could possibly muster, "but I plan on taking this as an opportunity to secure even more incriminating evidence to put forth to the new jury we will be having come the start of the new trial, so we can push for an even longer sentence for such a brutal, inhumane man."

His words were met by a chorus of applause, and Alfred threw a smug smirk over his shoulder towards his silently-fuming elder brother.

That bastard was always talking his way out of messes he created, _always._

When more microphones were pushed into his face and more questions were directed at him, variations of the inquiry he had just been asked, Jones set his hands up and made a pushing-away motion with them, shaking his head 'no' as him and Kirkland made their way quickly through the sea of various media forms. The last thing they needed to do was drown amongst the endless bodies of people that would kill to get a headline (because then they would probably try to get a headline out of _that _tragedy).

One woman in particular seemed bent on getting a response from the lawyer though and she stepped in front of him, all but pressing her tape recorder directly into his face and smirking, leaving no way possible for him to walk around her until he gave her an answer. A frustrated sigh was given. "Mr. Jones," she demanded, voice coldly professional, "the general public would like to know about just how _serious_, and how true, these accusations are that you are addicted to several narcotics such as cocaine and heroin?"

Well now. _Shit._

At this, Alfred seemed to freeze up, and he was thankful that the woman was holding no more than a tape recorder, because the United States of America and other nearby countries would have just gotten a rare glimpse of fear flickering through the man's cerulean eyes. Then, with a shake of his head and a wry smile forming on his handsome, narrow face, he laughed, "all I have to say is that _I'm_ wondering what _they're _smoking to pull out such heavy accusations like that; drugs are terrible things, take lives on a regular basis and have created some severe problems in both Mexico and Jamaica - not to over-shadow the problems of other countries out there - and then to turn around and accuse an educated man such as myself of undertaking and participating in such risky habits? That's _hilarious_. Stay in school or something, I don't know. Just don't do drugs."

He said nothing more to her, ignored the rest of the press, and forcefully pushed his way through them in order to head to his car, Arthur just barely keeping alongside the long, quick strides of the now pale-faced American.

When they got to the sleek, black Mercedes Benz in the parking lot, Arthur was huffing slightly, cheeks flushed as he had more or less power-walked a full block and a half to keep up with his younger (and clearly, still-in-shape) brother. "Fuck sakes, Alfred," the judge snapped, green eyes harsh and sharp as he leaned against the sun-warmed titanium and black-painted galvanized steel of his half-brother's vehicle. His brother, on the other hand, searched through the pocket of his sleek black Armani suit jacket in order to fish out the keys to his Benz. Blue eyes glinted angrily, his jaw was set firmly, and he refused to acknowledge the presence of the elder man. "Next time, just remember I'm not nearly as young as what you are, and try not to run the Jesus Boston Marathon."

Eyes finally looked up to meet with those of the speaker. "Whatever, sorry," his younger sibling snapped irritably, eyes narrowed and a shade darker as he deftly unlocked the front door of his car, sliding into the driver's seat before leaning over and unlocking the passenger door manually. When Arthur just stood there, Alfred gave a semi-vicious growl, smacking the window and gesturing sharply for the older man to get in the car with him, and to stop with his senseless dillydallying. The other blonde jumped, and then scowled. Bastard.

Slipping into the car and setting his briefcase onto the floor by his feet, Arthur leaned back with a sigh, doing up his seat belt in the process. Alfred, on the other hand abstained from the safety belt and chose to continue cursing and snarling beneath his breath as he anticipated the obvious questions that were soon going to come his way, and that would be thrown at him with a vengeance. He slid the key into the ignition, turned the piece of metal, and gave the engine a hard, long rev. There were three options he had: admit that yes, he quite liked his drugs and that they were what got him through the day. Then there was option two: deny everything and ask him what the fuck kind of idiot did he take him for? And then there was the third option:

Ignore him and pretend he wasn't there.

That was his favourite one.

And so he swerved in and out of traffic, one hand tight on the wheel - so tight his knuckles were turning white from the sheer strength with which he gripped the steering column - and the other hand of the gear stick. Although the Benz was an automatic, it still just felt natural to have one hand resting there. It gave him something to grip onto, gave him the space to relax. If there was anything the American loved, it was driving, especially a long, flat strip of interstate that was in the middle of a barren nowhere. When Arthur finally brought up that dreaded question, that one that would more than likely shatter any and every bit of remaining respect the judge had for him - "_Alfred, what did that reporter mean when she said you've been accused in taking narcotics? How true is that?_" - he said nothing, simply sped up with a lead foot on the gas peddle, eyes narrowing as he ran a red light and narrowly missed being t-boned by a Ford F150.

Kirkland's face was pale, he noted from the corner of his eyes with a smirk, but when his brother spoke up, voice shrill, only then did he ease off on the gas, just settling for a little bit above the speed limit. "I hope you don't forget that I have a wife and son at home - your bloody _nephew_, might I add - and that I would quite like to get home with two functioning legs and a heart beat, and not get redirected to a morgue in a body-bag because of your godforsaken reckless driving."

Turning his eyes back to the road and away from his nauseated-looking half sibling, Alfred said nothing, simply clenched his jaw and flexed his fingers around the steering wheel.

Then: "Sorry."

Arthur sighed, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. "Forgiven," he murmured, "Just, humour me, and tell me, _are _you doing drugs?" Green eyes were pleading, for the opposite of what he obviously knew was going to be said, small pale hands had fisted themselves into dry-cleaned dress slacks, and the driver knew that if he hadn't been pre-occupied with clenching at his clothing he would have wringing his hands raw instead of ruining pants that were once immaculately pressed.

"Mainly cocaine," Jones admitted, trying to fight back an incriminating sniff as he said so, "but I'm not shy when it comes to heroin, mephedrone, or morphine, either."

For a long moment there was silence. But Alfred made no move to break it, eyes fluttering away when he heard his elder sibling sigh with what was obviously heavy disappointment. He was thankful when nothing was said though, because in all actuality, he probably wouldn't know how to properly reply to whatever was said to him. Drugs were a sensitive subject to his brother, based on the simple fact that was how he had lost his first wife: an overdose of prescription painkillers. The man had been turned off from every possible drug archetype, ranging from children's Advil to crystal meth, and every little thing in between.

While he felt bad for his brother - he truly, truly did; Gwen had been a gorgeous woman with a tender heart and a loving smile (unlike the raw bitch he was married to now, Morgan) - he couldn't help but loathe the fact that he tried to shove that belief on everything that moved, that all drugs would kill you in the end, no matter their usage and how the user paced themselves.

That was something that Alfred didn't want to believe; he would rather consider himself too good for that sort of thing.

Invincible, if you might like to call it like that.

Invincible, but he didn't want to find out what his kryptonite was. Not before he needed to; when he did, he would prefer it to kill him on the spot than have to live with knowing what his one true weakness was.

x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x - x

They were wandering aimlessly about the supermarket, both of them holding baskets in either hand, chatting idly as they picked up various grocery items and as Alfred frequently recommended outrageously priced organic goods that he thought were 'totally awesome and would totally help his brother watch his waist which was expanding at an exponential rate each month '.

It was a wonder the management didn't have to call security over to escort the two men out of the store for the terrifyingly verbal argument they had gotten into.

Insults were thrown this way and that, including some very colourful ones that had a mother covering her child's ears, and while one elderly man pointedly blessed himself as he passed the two brothers that were practically on their way to an all-out brawl.

The fact that security hadn't been alerted yet was absolutely incredible and worthy of its own page in the Guinness Book of World Records.

The argument, though, had suddenly ceased when Alfred immediately fell silently when an employee walked into the isle, an elderly woman accompanying him, the young man walking slowly as not to out-walk the elderly, waddling woman that looked like she had no right to be grocery shopping on her own at her age. The young man had a gentle smile on his thin face, deep blue eyes shimmering, despite looking so evidently exhausted, behind crookedly-perched wire glasses that seemed almost too big for his delicately boned face and were held together by a small piece of duct tape. He was preoccupied with helping the woman, absent-mindedly tucking a strand of wavy blonde hair that fell just below his chin behind an ear as he approached the shelf and reached upwards and grabbed a can of what appeared to be gravy from the top shelf with ease. The woman seemed to be grateful for the help as she thanked him profusely, the employee laughing softly, a gentle sound that made Alfred's cheeks heat up and a pleasant warmth pass through his bones.

Apparently Arthur noticed his brother's straying gaze, for he was now looking at the young male employee, a look of interest on his face; it wasn't very often the Jones boy was attracted to an individual that didn't come across as sleazy or skanky, or didn't have tits falling out of their clothing.

Leaning over, leaning up and pressing his lips by his brother's ear, he whispered, "Who's the lovely lady that's captured your attention, Alfred?"

Blue eyes went wide, and Alfred stooped down slightly. "That's Matthew. He's a guy."

Arthur's cheek flushed crimson and he gave a choking noise, spluttering. This caught the employees attention as he walked past, and neither of them failed to notice the cold, harsh glare being sent in their direction - specifically Alfred. In fact, if anything, _he _quickened his steps to get out of their vicinity.

Not to be deterred, the American gave a wide, toothy grin. "Hey!" he said, hoping to effectively stop Matthew. The boy lived up to expectations and came to an abrupt halt, pivoting sharply, a strained smile on his face. His eyes were dull.

"Hello, Mr. Jones," he said tersely, blue eyes darkening a shade as stared at the lawyer with an expression that was somewhat hostile. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah! Remember that steak spice I asked you about two weeks ago? Have you gotten any in since then?"

Was it his imagination, or was Matthew skinner than the last time he saw him? Blue eyes narrowed as he took in the younger man's appearance - he was always so put together, but for some reason, the t-shirt just seemed to _hang_ off of his body. And was he paler, more tired looking? Bags hung dark around slightly bloodshot eyes and he swayed slightly, eyes watering as he seemed to bite down on his thin lips. This caused Alfred's own lips to dip into a frown, but his expression quickly brightened when the stock boy gave a singular nod in his direction before jerking his head for him to follow behind.

Alfred trotted along behind him, his mood having brightened considerably as Arthur tagged along behind them, utterly confused as his younger - and obviously gay as a white picket fence in the Bronx (how hadn't he noticed this before, really?) - brother attempted to make casual conversation with the 'pretty' young 'man'. All it was turning out to be was just an awkward, one-sided monologue, with which the young man occasionally interjected into with an 'oh, yes' or an 'is that so?' when the time seemed to be appropriate. Blue eyes were unreadable, his back was ramrod straight and his steps were brisk and measured. Who knew that such a frail-looking kid could be so professional, especially when one considered that he was a grocery store employee, of all things?

God, Kirkland still could just not believe that 'she' was actually a 'he'. No wonder Alfred was attracted to him in the first place.

They stopped in front of a spice rack three isles down, and after a quick scanning of the shelves, he picked up a small glass container and handed it to Alfred. "This here is the one the head of grocery had ordered in earlier on in the week," he said in a quiet voice, "and it's $7.99. Is that all you need, Sir?"

There was a smile on Alfred's face - an honest to God, genuine smile - and he nodded. "Thanks so much, Matthew. It's been ages since I've been able to get this one."

He was given a hesitant smile in return, one that only barely met cold blue eyes, and Matthew nodded slightly. "You're quite welcome." Said cold blue eyes were turned on the Briton that was openly staring at the youth. An eyebrow quirked upwards. "Did _you _need any help, Sir?"

The bushy-eyebrowed Brit spluttered briefly. "O-Oh, no, I, ah, I'm just here with my brother," he said, jerking a thumb in the smiling, _blushing _(he did a double-take at this and tried to keep his eyes from going wide) American's direction. "That's all."

"Ah." Then, "I express my deepest condolences then, Sir. Good day." And with that, Matthew left a confused American and a hysterically laughing Englishman behind him as he left the isle, a smug aura hanging about him. He glanced back once this time, smirked and shook his head, before leaving the two standing in the center of the isle.

Needless to say, when Alfred caught on to what it was that had been said about him, World War III was started in isle two - in the form of an embarrassed American throttling a man from the British Isles that looked all but ready to wet his pants from laughing just so damn hard - and they were promptly escorted to the cash to pay for their groceries and then more or less booted out the front doors with the threat that, if they were to ever behave like that again, they would never be allowed to come back there.

Which Alfred would have protested quite vocally, because how else would he be able to see that cute Matthew that worked in the grocery department.

And after that, Arthur promptly told his brother to shut his trap unless he wanted to have a restraining order slapped across his ass.

Alfred simply smiled.

Oh, the course of true lov-

'_Fuck this shit, I'm going home,_' Alfred thought glumly, opting out of visiting the Bobst library to look up information from the news papers dating back to 2002; something like that could be done later on in the week. And never, _ever_ before he had himself some McDonalds.

So, over the duration of a long, awkward, and very silent car ride, Alfred contemplated his options: the Big Mac or a Quarter Pounder. Fuck, his life was difficult; the man wouldn't be able to properly function without at least one hamburger a day. Or two, if he was really needing to feed the craving. God, he was such a pregnant woman.

In the car, on his way to drop his brother off back to his own car (and to obviously secure some McDonalds for himself lest his stomach start growling and eating itself), parked five and a half blocks away from the court house, Kirkland gave his younger half-sibling a sidelong glance. It was obivous he was hesitant in approaching the younger on the subject but, swallowing hard, he did so anyway.

"So, Alfred, this boy obviously has diddly-squat interest in you," he said cautiously.

"I'm aware," he said, cheerfully enough.

He nodded slowly. "Very good," the judge said, "then how do you plan to go about getting this lad to fall in love with you, considering that's what you seem slightly bent upon?"

He was given a shrug in response. "I 'unno, but I'll totally work the kinks out of all of it later, bro, so chill."

"And do you intend for this to be one of your usual three-month-flings in which you leave whichever poor damsel you've dated to fend for herself with an absolutely shattered heart, because you're a womanizer?" Green eyes were harsh now, and the lawyer couldn't keep his gaze steady (well, for one he was driving, but still).

"I wouldn't be able to answer you that one, either," Alfred muttered, sharply pulling over to the side of the road, the driver behind him blaring his horn. In a friendly gesture, the man stuck his hand out the window and stuck up his middle finger as a form of reply. '_Ah, New Yorkers. Great bunch, great bunch_,' he thought, feeling particularly vicious all of a sudden. His nose was burning and his palms were sweating. Fuck. He needed a line or three; it had been what, a full day now? Far too long.

Looking around, Arthur frowned at his brother, the man that was leaning against the steering column and sulking with a petulant expression on his face, blue eyes anything but happy, scratching the nape of his neck until it turned an angry shade of red.

"Call me if you need anything, alright?" Arthur asked quietly.

A skeptical look was sent in his direction, and the driver merely shrugged. "Sure, bro, sure," he said in an off-hand voice, eyes looking past him; his mind was elsewhere, concentrating on other things. Then he yawned until tears popped into the corners of his eyes.

With a cold, pale hand suddenly covering his, Alfred was startled back into a more focused form of reality. He stared at his brother, blinking slowly, sniffing. "I mean it, you wanker. Call me if you need anything at all."

"What if I need to get laid?"

"Go home and get some sleep, you're starting to look like shit." That said, Arthur got out of the car and headed over to his own, slamming the door of the Benz behind him.

"Bastard!" Alfred yelled before tearing off down the road again, swerving in and out of traffic the way he was before when they had left the court house.

He glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he hooked up his iPod to the speaker system, quickly skimming through shuffle until he got to something good and had a lot of bass to back it up and make the windows of his car vibrate. It was only three in the afternoon, which gave him another six hours until the party that night at some obscure V.I.P club downtown that some French chick he had met in England (go figure) had invited him to. The man thought for a second. If he played his cards right, there was a good chance he could get laid. A grin spread across his face as he turned off the main thoroughfare and tore down a side street, one that would take him to the apartment complex (complete with a doorman) that was home to his penthouse. Yeah, if he played his cards right, he could get very nice and laid.

This was going to be a good night.

Well, it_ would_ be if he could remember at least half of it by eleven o'clock.

* * *

Oh, wow! I didn't quite expect the response I got for that - what a pleasant surprise! Thanks you so much for all the reviews, faves and alerts, you guys! So, I guess that this means I'll try to update at least once a week. Hopefully once the plot really starts up the chapters will start to get a lot longer. (:

Thanks again, guys! -hearts-


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE.**

This was getting ridiculous.

Maybe he would need to consider filing for some sort of sexual harassment law suit against the bloody Yankee hoser and then everything would work out for him because, out of anything he had in the world, his family - or, now it was just him at least, and it had been absolute ages since he had last seen the man - had an _amazing_ lawyer at their beck and call whenever they had need for him. Albeit it wasn't very often they had to call the man up as he had previously stated, and the last time Matthew had talked face-to-face with him was when he was seventeen and sorting out the mess of his mother's finances and her will, and how things were going to turn out for him in the long run.

Then he _really_ thought about the odds of winning a law suit against Him, a federal criminal prosecutor.

And he thought, and he thought, and he _thought_ (_think, thank, thunk,_ eh?)

The odds were slim to none, and Slim got hit by a runaway freight train.

He gave an internal sigh as he leaned against the wall of the male employee's washroom, indigo eyes fluttering shut, handle of the mop coming to rest against his chest while his head of curly blonde hair settled upon a cool, brick surface. Eyes burning with exhaustion, it had been taking everything that morning for him to stay awake. The night before had been an experience from Hell, and not one he wanted to repeat any time soon; at around three in the morning, after having been in bed and asleep for no more than an hour, the alarm in his apartment building sounded and everyone had to be evacuated.

They had waited out in the cold, all thirty-nine occupants of the five-floor complex, for an hour and a half as they waited for the fire department to arrive and assess the situation, and then another half an hour for the problem to be fixed. Turns out there had been a gas leak in the basement that had set the alarms off, but thankfully, it wouldn't have gotten too bad unless it was ignored for an extended period. Because, you know, gas totally isn't something that'll harm you if it's leaking out of its pipes and getting into your lungs.

Totally, not at all, don't be so ridiculous.

With two hours sleep under his belt, fourteen hours of work the day before and fourteen lying ahead of him; Matthew didn't quite know how he was going to function. If you could call what he was doing now - leaning against the wall, holding the mop handle with his eyes barely open - functioning.

Yawning, hand going to his mouth, he jolted with a yelp when the mop hit the floor with a sharp clattering sound. The young man stumbled forward to quickly haul it back up, clutching the handle to his chest, looking around with wide eyes, teeth visibly chattering as he sneezed.

Not to mention it had started snowing, and he had been outside in boxers, a sweater and a blanket. For two hours. Did he mention it had been _snowing_?

Another yawn escaped him, and Matthew resumed mopping the tile floor for the third time that day. His boss had told him he could take the rest of the day off sick, but it would have been without pay, so he couldn't take it. Just couldn't let himself, as appealing as going home, curling up on the sofa and sleeping for the rest of the afternoon until his shift at the diner sounded to him. When he had refused, the man had sighed, and told him that, instead of doing work out back - unloading trucks carrying new products, using the forklift to bring about different crates, to go through the trash and cardboard compactors, make up stock lists - he could stick with maintenance for the day, and even if it meant he had to wash the same stuff five or six times, then so be it. As long as it was clean. And so, Matthew had jumped on the offer.

But now, as he dozed in and out while scrubbing the floor in the men's washroom, he found himself actually regretting not taking the rest of the day to himself to stay home and sleep. His nose was runny, his sinuses were clogged and his throat felt raw. Indigo eyes were bloodshot and burning with exhaustion, but watery from how much he had been yawning. For fuck sakes, it was even a task to remain standing upright!

Picking up the mop, dipping it down into the floor-cleaning solution several times before bending over to ring it out, he sighed softly, humming quietly under his breath as he did so. Then he slapped the mop head onto the floor and started to scrub in and around the toilets. He paused, and frowned; although he had scrubbed the floor five times now, he hadn't actually cleaned the toilets and sinks themselves, nor had he wiped down the mirrors, counters and soap dispensers.

Immediately, the young man brightened, the slightest bounce in his step as he brought the mop back over to the janitorial cart and set it back down into the water. Cleaning the toilets and all bathroom-related paraphernalia would take him at least an hour, and it would take at least another hour for him to do the women's washroom, as well.

He paused. This was pathetic; he was smiling over being able to clean _toilets_.

That was just _pathetic. _It kind of hurt, actually.

But it was better than dealing with Him when He would come in at three o'clock in the afternoon, every day, guaranteed. Way better. Like, it was just so fucking predictable that He would waltz into the store, wander around for twenty minutes to get groceries, _hunt him down _and make an attempt at striking up a conversation of sorts. It was always awkward, and made him sort of hate his life even more; the Guy was just so damn persistent (it was no wonder He was a lawyer).

In fact, Matthew decided He was like a bad case of Herpes - no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it, it would never ever go away.

Then again, the same thing could be said for Gonorrhea, Genital Warts, Chlamydia, Trichomonas, Syphilis, HIV … _AIDS _…

The Man was a walking sexually transmitted disease, just _waiting_ to be spread all over the freaking state of New York and beyond. And, sadly, there wasn't an anti-virus vaccine/pill combination in the world big enough for Him.

Hauling on a pair of latex gloves, Matthew grabbed a hair buckle from his back pocket and pulled his curly blonde locks back, pinning them up while a few strands came loose and framed his pale face, the flaxen blonde locks curling lazily and swinging slightly as he marched over to the row of four stalls to, for one, flush all the toilets - even if they already were, he was not taking _any _chances because, frankly, he didn't want to see anyone else's piss or shit in there, thank you kindly. God, even grown people could be just so disgusting at times. Their parents had, clearly, failed to instil any sort of hygienic practices in their minds.

As he sat on his knees in front of the toilet, grimacing as he scrubbed the seats, biting the inside of his mouth as he went, Matthew side, indigo eyes fluttering shut as he proceeded with the simple, mechanical motions of scrubbing. He yawned, sneezed and then yawned again. The longer he knelt there, scouring the porcelain both inside and outside of the toilet bowl, he found his thoughts wandering far from the task at hand, delving into places he usually liked to keep forced towards the back of his mind, buried deep within the more subconscious layers of his thoughts. Honestly, there was one thing he didn't quite like about the cleaning shift he had taken - it gave him far too much time to think. The very reason he enjoyed working so much despite the hours was the fact that it got him away from that one time-occupying hobby that proved to be more dangerous than anything in the world. Thinking. His thought process, since he was seventeen had been broken and knocked asunder, everything heavily disjointed and just plain incoherent.

But, it was getting better - the Valium was really helping with that ungodly anxiety problem, and the Zoloft was making the depression that much more bearable - and, well, he liked to consider himself a work in progress. It had been months since he had, well, tried to _do_ anything. And he was having trouble getting past suicide option 139 - eating the poisonous barbs from a male platypus - which was something quite unusual in itself. The depression wasn't going away though, and probably wouldn't, at least not for some time to come. There was the distinct chance that it could change, and Matthew reserved that last shred of hope he still clung to for that one, pathetic little aspiration.

Now, if he could bring his mother back from the dead, and just figure out who the hell his father was and beat the living shit out of him, he would be all set.

Making his way into the next stall, the Canadian plopped down on the floor in front of that one and sighed, dipping the cloth back into the water a few times before ringing it out and polishing the surface of this toilet. God, if there was any one thing on the earth that he loathed, it was a dirty toilet.

There were so many things wrong with society, and if Matthew could have his way, he would lay all the blame on the American government, outdated passports that he couldn't afford to replace, and dirty fucking toilets.

Because nobody liked a dirty toilet. Like, even dogs and cats know better than to drink from a shit-filled bowl (some sort of sixth sense domestic animals must have for that sort of thing, Matthew decided to himself).

Then again, that lawyer probably liked dirty toilet water…

He physically shook his head to rid himself of the thoughts and then jolted when the work phone attached to his belt started ringing. Dropping the cloth - in the toilet, oh fuck he was not fishing _that _out - and fumbling with the phone - which he almost dropped in the bowl as well - he pressed the cordless phone to his cheek with trembling hands: "H-hello?"

"_Hey, Matthew, do you think you could come downstairs for a few minutes? Some kid puked down along isle three._"

The young man grimaced and mimed gagging before replying, "Yeah, sure. It's not too bad, is it?"

"_Like I said, the kid puked down along isle three._"

Matthew blinked. "Do you mean tha-?"

"_It goes from one end to the other. We had to close the isle off and everything,_" came the conformation that made Matthew want to sit there and sob, _"Like, man, it was fucking projectile. You might want a gas mask or something too, cause it reeks._"

He sighed, massaging his forehead as he removed his gloves. "You know what, Gil?"

"_What's that, bro?_"

"I fucking _hate _kids."

When he got down to isle three, janitorial cart in tow, Matthew realized his co-worker hadn't been lying in the least - the pallid skinned man that was three years older than him, acted like he was ten, who was a loner extraordinaire, who was obsessed with every kind of beer, who was his only friend at that particular location, Gilbert Beilschmidt, was also a notorious liar. He was half expecting to see absolutely nothing down there (actually, praying to see nothing down there is a better way to put it), and for Gilbert to be stood off to the side, snickering like the jerk he was. But, that was not to be the case in this instance. Pylons with crudely-written signs saying "**ISLE CLOSED 8D**" were placed on either end, and there was a rather peculiar trail leading from one side to the other…

Immediately, once the smell hit him, it took every ounce of his self-control not to turn tail and run back to the male washroom and puke into one of his nice, clean toilet bowls. In fact, he almost failed; he took several steps backwards as a hand went to cover his nose and mouth, masking the urging he was making to vomit. There was one thing he did not want to do, and that was add to the mess that was already on the floor he had pain-stakingly cleaned that morning when he got in, an hour before the store had opened.

As he stood there, getting his cleaning equipment together, he could feel the eyes of customers just burning into his back as he entered the isle, nose screwed up, face set in a firm grimace of disgust. Mocking, sneering, pitying, disgusted and amused eyes all alike, and they made Matthew sick to his stomach, even more so than the stench of what was splattered all over the floor. He clenched the mop even tighter in his hands, so hard that he could actually feel splinters digging into his calloused palms.

If there was any one thing he hated more than children - especially the little snot-nosed ones that couldn't keep their shit together and hold it in until they got to a bathroom - it was people in general.

There was not one thing on the face of God's green earth that he hated more than a living, breathing excuse of humanity.

It was the vanity, the ignorance, the arrogance, the jealousy, the greed, the excess, the selfishness, the despotism in other countries that people were subjected to, the cruelty of brothers and men alike, the social problems that reigned over half of the world's population, the injustice, the racism, the inequality - racial, gender, whatever - their wars, the capitalists, the communists, the fascists, the heretics, the zealots, the religious, the scientists, the doctors, the politicians, the civil servants, the justice system, the people that worked for the justice system, the rich, the poor, the suicidal, the stable, the sane, the insane, the optimists, the pessimists, the futurists, the historians, the lies they all told to get themselves through the day, the lies they told to themselves that, "Hey, at the end of the day, everything will be a-okay" even when they damn well knew it wouldn't be. And he hated the dead the most of all, because he was simply envious of their position in the world, being six-feet-under and away from it all.

Yeah, he hated every last one of them, right down to the smallest part of their deoxyribonucleic acid helix. What a year spent homeless in New York City, the city of dreams and opportunities and being unable to find those 'dreams and opportunities', could do to someone. What losing a parent could do to someone, too.

God, he could go off on a five-hour tangent about how much he hated the human species alone for just their traits. If he got into the politics and religions of the world, well, sit back and grab a pillow because it would be the equivalent to a red-eye flight from England to Australia, and back.

Muttering viciously beneath his breath, indigo eyes icy, Matthew started scrubbing the floor in a manner that could only be described as violent, and with some seriously ill-intentions.

Enter phase three of passive-aggressive rage.  
**Status:  
**_Maintain a safe distance, pray for the best and do __**not **__feed the animal._

Matthew simply glared at the floor as he cleaned because he did not know what else to do. And all the while, he just kept muttering to himself, despite some of the alarmed looks being sent his way, using every single slanderous, derogative term in his vocabulary, directing them towards essentially every single person he knew, only succeeding in making him hate himself just that smidgen more for having all those cruel words in his vocabulary.

He was just as bad as the rest.

And he all but jumped clean out of his skin, a startled shriek (not a girly one, dammit!) escaping his lips. The mop handle clattered to the floor and he doubled over, panting heavily, eyes squeezing tightly shut as he did so. Cackles came from above him, and he immediately knew who it was. "Gilbert, you are cruising for a bruising."

The laughter grew louder, and the small American man bent down, picking up the mop handle and leaning on it. The platinum blonde smirked at him as he straightened up, crystal clear blue eyes laughing as he eyed the taller, younger Canadian. When Matthew had his bearings once more, Gilbert shoved the mop back towards him. "Then stop being such a wuss, and I wouldn't be cruisin' for a bruisin'," he snickered, hands propped on his hips in a cocky manner.

Matthew rolled his blue eyes, looking down at the man that was shorter than him by a good four inches. "Careful, being retarded stunts your growth."

"Then why aren't _you_ a midget?"

Oh,_ well _now. A hand flew up to his heart and he feigned hurt. "Oh, you _wound _me Gil, you absolutely _wound_ me."

The slight man of Germanic (he would argue that he was specifically of _Prussian _lineage, thank you very much have a nice day and don't let the door hit you on the way out) descent simply cackled, grabbing a second mop from the trolley and sauntered over to a patch he had yet to get to. "Here, I'll help ya with it, Birdie," he said with an off-kilter smile, "only cause I feel bad for you having to clean up some rich kid's puke when you already look like something that's after crawlin' out of 'The Night of the Living Dead'."

Expression blank, Matthew stared at Gilbert. "Thanks, Gil. _Thanks_."

Gilbert, not catching the younger man's biting sarcasm, simply smiled back at him as he started mopping the floor with vigour. "Not a problem, dude," he said cheerfully as he turned his usually elusive attention back to the task at hand. The twenty-one-year-old, on the other hand, simply shook his head of pinned-back curly blonde hair and laughed quietly, choosing to do the same instead of saying anything that might have been lacking in taste to the German- - oh, excuse him - to the _Prussian-_American.

With their combined forces, and the one, much-needed song break to sing along to the radio and dance in the middle of the isle - much to the surprise and amusement of some of the more light-hearted customers - when they heard Lady GaGa playing over the speakers, it took them twenty minutes to scour the floors twice. It almost ended with disaster, though, because in the middle of a particularly amazing rendition of the electric slide, Gilbert nearly crashed right into the metal shelving. And, chances were, if he did, he would have knocked it down and created quite the mess of broken merchandise for themselves to both clean up and more than likely pay for. But that didn't mean it wasn't absolutely hilarious watching the man re-enact Lady GaGa's dance moves with such a precision that the woman would probably jealous. Because it was a fucking _riot_.

And then Men Without Hats just _had _to come on.

Of _course_.

Needless to say, by the end of the song, the two men were paged to the manager's office for quite the stern talking-to. But, if they were getting fired (which Matthew highly doubted, considering they were short staff members as it was, so there was no way their boss was going to let two of his long-standing employees go over giving a free concert down isle three on a snowy, December afternoon), at least they would be going out with style and their own soundtrack with choreography attached.

Good afternoon? Why, yes, Matthew decided as he and Gilbert left the store, having finally come to the end of their shift, leaning against one another as the Canadian yawned and the Prussian-American lit up a cigarette. At this point it was a struggle of epic proportions for him to stay awake, and the yawns were coming hard and heavy.

Successful afternoon, indeed.

"Mission complete," Gilbert said as they shook hands before they parted ways - Matthew to run and catch the bus, the pale-skinned man to go home and catch up on university papers - and grinned at one another. "40G unlocked, I do believe."

And for the first time in what felt like months, Matthew laughed and smiled, indigo eyes lighting up with delight, everything feeling like it had been pushed seven country miles behind him.

* * *

That all lasted until he missed the bus. He had been at the stop and, as if he had turned invisible or something, the bus just kept on driving past him, leaving him standing there screaming and flailing his arms until his voice broke and would carry no further. And then he stood there for a few minutes on the sidewalk, giving a hacking cough that rattled deep in his chest, feeling tears prick at his eyes as he did so, but it was hard to tell whether or not the tears were from coughing so hard that his spleen should have fallen out onto the snow-covered sidewalk, or if it was from the sheer frustration of missing the bus and knowing he had to walk to work from there, the diner being a half an hour walk alone if he took all the back allies and short cuts he could find.

And if there was any one thing he hated, it was the back alleys of New York City.

Deciding that he might as well get moving if he wanted to get there on time for his shift to get changed and hopefully get a chance to get something to eat - considering he hadn't eaten a single thing since this time yesterday - Matthew gave a dejected sigh as he pulled his flimsy sweater tighter around his waif-like frame. But, before he went anywhere, he opened his backpack, removed his wallet, and quickly stuffed it down the front part of his pants. While, he knew it wouldn't stop anyone from jumping him and taking his stuff, at least his wallet would be safe. Unless someone tried to rape him. Then, that might not work out nearly as well for him in that perspective…

Pushing that thought to the farthest recesses of his mind, Matthew re-shouldered his bag and started what was going to be a long trek through Brooklyn from the far side all the way to the center. A long, cold, unenjoyable trek in the falling snow was what lay before him, and he sighed at the thought of it.

The sky overhead was a heavy shade of gray, slowly turning black, which blended in with the tall buildings on either side of the street, the bare trees, the salt-coated cars, the snow that was piling on the benches. There were practically no cars on the road, and there were even less people out walking in the weather that promised to get worse later on in the evening. Around him the world had grown to be a monochrome place, leaving no in-between spaces for colour, for light, for life. Everything was dead around him as he trudged along the sidewalk where the snow was up past his ankles and his feet were beginning to soak through the material of his sneakers. It was monotonous trying to get from one place to the other, and the longer he walked the colder his feet got, the more his nose started to run and his eyes watered. The bitter wind cut through his sweater and he gave another yawn, nearly choking on a few snow flakes that fluttered down his throat.

Yeah, he really should have just said fuck it stayed home to sleep everything off.

And saying that it only took half an hour to get from the supermarket to the diner was an understatement; he had ducked down every alley he came across that he knew would get him to the small restaurant, and was already reaching the forty-minute mark, and he was still a good ten minutes away from the establishment.

Quickly skirting around several taxis, Matthew bounded through a snow back and cut down another alley, his steps light and with a slight bounce to them, the backpack he wore thumping hard against his back. He hauled himself up onto the top of a dumpster, nearly slipping off from the ice build-up, and then quickly vaulted his thin frame over a seven-foot-high chain link fence, landed soundly on his bottom in a snow bank as he did. He was panting heavily by this point, the sweat forming on his neck freezing rapidly into ice crystals that stung like the devil.

Winding down the corner of an adjacent alley, Matthew paused for a moment, looked around him, and nodded. He was still going the right way. After the past two, almost three years, he still remembered his way through these alleys. Amazing. Another three blocks, and he would be there in no time, and with maybe five minutes to spare before his shift officially started. His boss probably wouldn't appreciate him showing up soaked to the bone and sneezing like it was nobody's business, but at least he wasn't handling the cooking, right?

And then he was grabbed from behind and slammed face-first into a concrete wall, someone holding his hands tightly behind his back and pressing a gun at the bottom of his jaw with a purpose.

Oh, well, _this_ was rather unfortunate.

Unfortunate, but not the first time it had happened to him.

Remaining perfectly still despite the pain that flared in his busted lip, despite the way the blood pouring freely down his face all but scalded his skin, Matthew let his pockets be picked through as angry, jeering voices came from behind him. The men were goading him on, trying to get him to lash out, to struggle, probably so they could shoot him and dump him in Central Park or something. They were rough, deep, craggy voices. It sounded like they were speaking Russian, or some Slavic language - all the Canadian knew was that he had no idea what it was they were saying to him, if it was him they were talking to. He stirred once, feeling his shoulders cramping, and the weapon was pressed harder against his throat, choking him slightly. The icy metal of the gun, a harsh dose of New York reality, was enough to keep him silent and forcing the trembling out of his body. And they were not very nice about it, not at all.

When his backpack was ripped from his body, the first noise of protest (arms were not meant to be bent that way!), he was shoved back against the brick wall, face colliding with it once more, and then the back of his sweater was grabbed and he was flung forcefully to the ground. He cringed as his elbows struck first, a sharp jolt of pain flaring up along his bones as he cried out with shock. A blow, delivered by a heavy steel-toed worker's boot, was sent straight into his stomach, and it took Matthew every bit of restraint to keep from crying then and there. Another three kicks were delivered, and the young man was writhing and positively moaning with pain.

Then, they were gone, and Matthew Williams simply lay there for a few moments, eyes fluttering shut as he felt the blood coating his lower lip and chin beginning to crystallize. Everything hurt, everything was cold. Cold all over. He brought his knees up to his chest for a moment before rolling onto his back and straightening out, much to the protesting, screeching muscles in his stomach. Tears were streaming down his face, and it was only then that he noticed them. He then proceeded to pat his crotch, and he managed to give a weak smile despite himself.

His wallet was still there. That was all that mattered, really.

After a moment, as the pain seemed to be fading - all he was waiting for now was the second wave of pain to strike - he figured that this would be the time to get back up and get a move on, before the pain struck once more like a cobra. He was back up on his feet and quickly jogging down the alley, glancing occasionally over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being followed by anyone, as he used the sleeve of his black sweater to wipe the layer of blood from his face before it froze there. Suddenly, his stomach churned violently, its poor, abused muscles clenching tighter than ever and he stopped dead in his tracks as the world around him spun, dropping to his knees and immediately vomiting mucus out onto the snow-covered ground with a groan of pain, eyes fluttering shut as he re-adjusted his glasses, which had surprisingly remained intact during the entire altercation. He absently wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before feeling another wave of pain-fuelled nausea sweep across him, leaving him immobile as he bundled in on himself in his prostrate position, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, pressing in on his stomach as he buried his face in the icy snow, trying to ride out the second wave of pain as it rolled around.

Once the pain subsided to a dull pulsating sensation and the sickness had passed over him, Matthew dragged himself up into a standing position, feeling his legs wobble beneath his as he stumbled to the side in a manner that could almost be considered drunken. All over sensation had disappeared, his extremities tingling from numbness.

The young man remained standing still for a moment while the vertigo passed, while his breathing evened out, while the muscles in his hollow stomach loosened and relaxed despite the occasional flares of pain flickered through them.

In his head, he constructed a mental chart:

_Matthew: Zero.  
__Angry thugs: Seventy-two._

That wasn't a chart he liked the looks of, but it was one that he had gotten quite used to at this point in time - getting beaten up in a back alley was no new occurrence to him, but this was the first time, he admitted, that he had anything stolen from him. Glancing at the hands on his watch, Matthew went white. He had a little less than five minutes to get to the diner, and showing up late for his shift was the last thing he wanted to do.

So, he did the most logical thing: he started running.

Sprinting the remaining three blocks did nothing but make the pain worse, and by the time he arrived at the diner - ten minutes late - he was gasping from breath amongst the tears of utter agony that rolled freely down his face as he collapsed against the back door of the kitchens, clenching his stomach tightly as he buried his face into his thin thighs.

He wasn't all that surprised when he saw his boss, Mr. Wang, stood in the kitchen, arms folded across his slim torso and a look of impatience on his narrow, delicately-boned face. What he did not expect was to see the look of concern bloom on his finely aged features when he came in through the door and all but dropped to the grimy linoleum tiling, curling in on himself as his stomach tried to reject its contents once more.

The lithe, Asiatic man crossed the space quickly, face stony as he knelt down before the sobbing Canadian, taking a white, icy face between his warm, dry hands. "My boy, what is it?" he murmured softly, doe brown eyes searching his own, water indigo depths with concern. "What has happened?"

Matthew tried to speak, but nothing came out other than incoherent moans of pain and gasps as he tried to get his breath back from the sprinting. Mr. Wang tried to get him to stand, but he recoiled with a whimper, feeling his face flush with embarrassment, his eyes pricking with tears. The Chinese man frowned deeply and pried the Canadian's arms away from his gut. There was a brief struggle, Matthew trying to haul his arms back down to protect himself, a panicked look in exhausted, tear-filled indigo optics, but his boss won out and pressed his fingertips gently to his abdomen, making the much younger man squirm. "There?"

A choked out 'yes' was his reply, and the man nodded his understanding.

"Bag?"

"G-g-gone."

Mr. Wang frowned. "Your change of clothing? Your books?"

"B-bag."

The Chinese diner-owner stood up and walked away from the boy, calling out in Russian to one of the cooks, making a rapid succession of hand gestures as he did so. His face was stony, brown eyes impenetrable as he spoke in a harsh voice. And the next thing he knew, he was being hoisted up by a big, burly Russian man that didn't speak a lick of English, a man he had never spoken to once in his life, and was being carried out of the kitchen area and up over a flight of stairs, into Mr. Wang's home above the diner.

He was brought into a spare room and settled down upon a comfortable bed covered with thick blankets. Immediately, he turned upon his side and snuggled down into the mattress, a small moan of pain leaving him as he curled in upon himself. He could feel the eyes of the Russian man on him, studying him with a wordless concern, a slight curiosity, and a broad hand swept across his forehead. Matthew locked eyes with the light green-blue ones of the cook. An eyebrow was cocked. "Better?" The word was asked in harsh English, sounding more like 'bedder' than what it was meant to be, but it brought a ghost of a smile to his lips all the same. Mutely, he nodded, and the Russian cook nodded in his direction, his black fringe flopping against his tanned forehead. "Good."

The cook turned and left, nodding towards their Chinese employer, who stood watching the exchange from the door. Behind him stood Kat, white-blue eyes anxious. For the older woman, he managed a better smile, but was unable to sit himself up in the bed, at least not until the pain subsided again.

Swiftly crossing the room, Mr. Wang sat down beside Matthew and ran his fingertips across his pale, clammy forehead. "You are burning up," he murmured to no one in particular. Then he turned to the Ukrainian immigrant stood worriedly in the doorway, biting her thumb nail. "Ms. Braginski, would you please go to the bathroom down the hall, at the end on the right, and retrieve the bottle of Advil that is in the medicine cabinet for me, as well as a glass of water from the sink?"

"Oh, of course!" the forty-three-year-old woman exclaimed with a polite bow, scurrying away from the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway as she went.

Turning his attention back to the shivering Canadian on the bed that was in the process of sitting up, Mr. Wang frowned deeply. "Lie back down, boy," he said, voice firm yet gentle. Somewhat incoherent eyes met his, and Matthew flopped backwards without a word of argument, turning his eyes away as he rested his hand on his abdomen. Eyelashes fluttered against his cold- and fever-flushed cheeks, but the dish washer said nothing. The man sighed. "Might I see the job on your stomach, Matthew?"

Squirming with embarrassment, Williams nodded shyly, allowing the Chinese man to haul his shirt upwards. A look of displeasure and worry crossed his lean face, and then he shook his head piteously. "Your stomach is in a fine mess, child," he murmured in a gentle voice. "You are going to be sore for some days to come. And you are sick, yes?"

A slow nod. God, his head was starting to get blurry, and was feeling really heavy, too. Was this what a nice bed did to people? Fuck, he needed to get himself one. Hell, maybe even two.

Kat returned to the room, two pills and a glass of water in hand and she crouched down beside Matthew while Mr. Wang tipped his head upwards, helping him take the pain killers and water. "For both your fever and pain," he said tenderly when the boy balked at the sight of more little capsules being handed his way. Hazy eyes turned upwards and met with the gaze of his boss, and he nodded, allowing himself to be fed the medications and the water by the elder woman.

And for a little while, the three simply sat there as Matthew shivered and huddled deep into the comforter.

"Ms. Braginski, I must ask you to return downstairs and continue your duties," the diner-owner said finally, sternly, lips set in a tight line.

The Ukrainian woman nodded her understanding, pressed a warm, motherly kiss to semi-conscious boy's warm forehead before turning and quickly leaving the room as she adjusted her apron and nametag.

And so there were two of them, and they sat in silence for nearly an hour more before Matthew finally started to come around once more, up righting himself with a groan, hand going to his forehead. "Mr. Wang?" he inquired groggily, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he tried to focus in on the Asian man that had been seated on a chair at the desk in the room, looking out though the window and down onto the street below. Brown eyes flickered in his direction, acknowledging him. Matthew swallowed harshly, and then cleared his raw throat. "Why did … ah, well … why wo…"

"Why would I take care of you the way I did?" he softly filled-in for the stammering Canadian. Sheepishly, the boy nodded his head of blonde, matted hair, scratching the side of his nose. "You live alone, do you not? And you are only a little over twenty, correct?" Two nods followed his words. "Then that is reason enough."

Matthew chose to refrain from saying anything else, simply sat up and plucked at the warm blankets between his fingers.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Much, thank you," he said quietly.

With that, Mr. Wang stood up and dusted his hands together. "Well, let's get you out of that uniform and into something clean, shall we?"

Spluttering, Matthew stared at him, incredulous. "But, but I-"

"You look to be about the same size as my son, and he rarely comes by anymore, so I doubt he would mind if you took some of his clothing," Mr. Wang said, albeit half of it was to himself. The lanky man started rifling through the drawers in the dresser and quickly extracted a red and blue, plaid flannel shirt and held it out, studying it with a critical eye before nodding with approval. He then removed a black t-shirt from the drawer as well, shaking it out and tossed the two items onto the bed. With the ease and grace of a feline, he moved across the room from the long white dresser and over to the double-door closet and hauled them open with both hands, scanning the contents. He removed a pair of pants from a hanger and threw them onto the bed. They were a dark denim, stiff and more than likely unworn. "Take these and put them on." Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but was silence by a cold, harsh glare. "Do not argue with me, boy, because I do not want to hear it. Consider it your payment for tonight's shift, considering I will be getting someone else to wash the dishes. I want you to seat people and collect dishes from tables, nothing more, nothing less, understand me?"

Nodding meekly, Matthew looked away, cradling the new, clean clothing to his chest like it was some sort of Holy Grail, running his fingers along the firm fabric, unspoken gratitude in his tired, shadowed eyes.

Turning, the Chinese man barked a few more orders - clean up that face of yours, brush your hair (I mean really, is there a rat living in there, child?) - before leaving him to descend to the restaurant below to once more run the place properly.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, his fever having subsided, Matthew sighed softly as he stripped down, fingering the smattering of bruises on his abdomen. Then he pulled the black t-shirt - which ended up being a shirt with Super Mario on it - and then he draped the flannel shirt over his shoulders, leaving it unbuttoned and hanging loosely. The material was warm, though, and he hugged himself, loving the way it heated his skin as he kept his arms tightly around his body. From the crotch of his pants, blushing slightly, he removed the wallet he had kept there for safety. Quickly he hauled the pants on and stood, slipping his wallet into the back pockets of his new, nicely fitting jeans. They clung nicely to his form - or lack of - and came to just skim across the floor. They were long, and somewhat loose on his narrow hips, but the youth was thankful. And, as a bonus, his stomach only giving one twitch of protest, barely turning as he headed to the bathroom, his steps down the hall slow and measured.

For the first time in a long time, Matthew felt thankful for what he could consider charity, more or less. As he washed his face over in the bathroom, careful to mind his split lip, he sighed, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his forehead against the cool, glassy surface of the mirror mounted upon the medicine cabinet. He was tired, but not nearly as tired as before, and the pain had all but left his gut. He knew, though, that he would be feeling it in the morning. Oh God, would he ever feel that fucking rainbow on his gut when he got out of bed in the morning.

Leaving the bathroom and heading back down to the restaurant, his steps cautious, a hand subconsciously going to his gut as he walked back into the wide open space. The sky outside was pitch black, the large space was blocked, and several of the waitress, Kat included, were in the process of making their rounds to families, business men and artists alike. Matthew, running a hand through his hair and getting it back out of his face, tied the messy locks back and, under the watchful eye of Mr. Wang, started in on helping the girls collect plates, smiling shyly at them as colour finally started making its way back into his narrow face.

A group of men walked into the dining area, five of them in three piece suits, carrying brief cases, and Matthew approached them with a smile.

But the smile was wiped from his face when he met with bright blue eyes, and the colour immediately drained from his cheeks. Would Mr. Wang be angry if he turned around and let the men, the lawyers and British judge with those atrocious, abominable eyebrows, seat themselves?

One stern look from the Hawk on the other side of the room, and the Canadian mouse swallowed hard and approached them, holding menus tightly against his chest. He offered them a hesitant smile. "Right this way to your table, gentlemen," he whispered, practically inaudible over the din of clinking cutlery and glasses, the conversation filling the room. Two of the men smirked while the British judge stared at him, a monstrous brow arched while the other, the American with hair the colour of wheat, smiled softly, but blessedly enough, said nothing to him.

When the men ordered a round of beer before they even went for food, Matthew knew that this was going to be a long, long shift.

And he found himself wondering why those two men in that alley way hadn't taken the liberty to beat him to death.

* * *

Holy. Shit. So many reviews last time. :'D Just to say, though, there's going to be a gap in updates, because I have exams coming up and I seriously need to study fml. Not much longer though, and the plot is going to seriously kick in - we're getting there, so just hold tight. XDD And, no, the Russians that bet Matthew up was not Ivan and a lackey, nor was the cook in the kitchen that brought him up. And yes, China is Matthew's boss at the restaurant. Hopefully the chapters aren't too short. \:

Reviews are love! Thanks for reading! -hearts-


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR.**

When he woke up, the first thing he realized was that he was not in his apartment.

The second thing he realized was that he was not wearing anything.

He didn't remember a single damn thing from the night before past the shot contest he had with several of the guys from Harvard that he used to be in a frat with. That had been at twelve. Everything else that extended beyond that point in time was nothing more than an incoherent blur, and if anything, he figured it would be better if it stayed that way.

And he smiled.

_Success._

This was going to be a good day.

Stretching lazily, rolling all the kinks out of his spine, his shoulders and then cracking his neck, Alfred F. Jones masked a yawn as he propped himself up on his elbows, looking around for his glasses. A lightly tanned hand groped about a bedside table, and at once he came in contact with the horn-rimmed spectacles. Once he secured them in his grasp after a few fumbling motions, he slipped them on and looked around the room he was in. A low, impressed whistle escaped him. A wide, spacious area, four-posted canopy bed, and fashionably decorated. The lawyer flopped back, arms spread out on either side. So, he was in a snazzy hotel room. Oh, well now, that was always nice. Not too shabby in the least. It so beat that one time he woke up in some crappy motel in SoHo, that much was for certain. Honestly, there was a cockroach on the bedside table that was nearly as long as his pointer finger, and that was just wrong on so many levels. But this? This was _nice._

And, from the silk bed comforter, the mattress he all but sunk down into, the warm sheets with a fleece underlining and pillow cases with a 'PH' written in a fancy cursive text, embroidered in gold thread on the surface, it was easy to deduce that he was currently in one of the master suites in the Plaza Hotel, just across from Central Park. Well, for one, he had spent enough time in them to know very well which hotel he was in. Probably not a good sign, but whatever. He slowly sat up again and glanced to the windows, rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his hands, blinking the sleep out of them. Snow fell in gentle flakes just beyond the glass and, from what he could see, he was indeed in the Plaza Hotel.

From the looks of it, it was early out, too, for the sky was still partially dark, black slowly being replaced by a concrete jungle gray that would hold out until March. A glance to the clock by the bedside showed that it was only 6:30 in the morning, and a groan left his lips as he fumbled for a cigarette, desperate for his first hit of nicotine for the day, sniffing slightly as he brought the lighter to the tip. It was too early to be awake, but there was probably no sense in him going back to sleep, either, considering he needed to get to the NYU library as soon as it opened - he needed to hit the archives as soon as the place was open to the public. He took a drag, exhaling slowly. The plan was to stay there until the place closed, get as many photocopies of newspapers dating back until 2002 as he possibly could and scour the pages to scrounge up whatever evidence he could to use, along with other things, once the trial was re-started come the spring of the new year.

With a sigh the lawyer rested back against the headboard of the bed, rubbing his face, biting back another yawn. God, he was so _tired. _Did he not sleep last night or something?

"Mornin', hun."

Quickly, he looked up, blinked twice and grinned when he realized that the tall, tanned brunette stood in the doorway, a silk house coat slung around her lithe frame, a coy look in her ebony eyes which were heavily-lidded, was more or less the reason he was still tired. When he really thought about it, with the way his libido went when he was drinking hard liquor, there was probably a good chance he hadn't gotten more than an hour's sleep.

"Why, hello," he purred with a wry smile, placing the cigarette in a crystal ash tray that was on the bedside table, trying not to smirk as the woman approached him and crawled onto the bed beside him, then moving to straddle him and nuzzling at his tender neck. He kept a cringe hidden behind his smile - there must have been quite the smattering of hickies along his skin if it was fucking _sore. _Alfred let his fingers dance along her spine, thumb rubbing small circle patterns as it went along, smirking darkly as she let out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut as she started to kiss at his neck once more. He in turn gave his own hum of contentment, bringing her up closer to him.

My oh my, what a nice way to be greeted first thing in the morning. This needed to happen more often than not, thanks.

But one difference was that he would like to actually know their name, where they were from, and if they had any diseases. You know, the usual safety check. But, he just had no major interest in that. Or, at least not with all the women he had been involved with. They were whores, plain and simple. Two-dimensional slags, as his brother would charmingly put it in those silly little Limey nuances of his, that couldn't hold his attention for more than five minutes unless they had their legs spread for him, which was the case most of the time. They weren't nearly as intelligent as what he looked for in someone, and fuck if he could put up with someone for more than a week.

Oh, commitment issues, what would he do without them?

But, then again, there was Matt-

He blinked, train of thought thrown off completely. _Well now. _The woman removed her bathrobe, pressing her hips up against Alfred's harshly, rocking them slightly. He couldn't help but bite his lip at this while she murmured softly. The criminal prosecutor kissed at her throat, slowly trailing his lips downwards, tongue occasionally darting out. Absolutely nothing was left to his imagination now - not like he even needed to use it anymore, though. She squirmed with a soft giggle as his hands continued to wander along her back, and from behind his glasses and beyond her line of vision, he rolled his eyes with annoyance.

Great, a giggler. He fucking _hated _those. They were the kind of people that when you slept with them that, even if you just fucking _looked _at them, they started giggling and flailing as if they were fucking mentally unstable or something and were fighting off the legions of doom, not getting stared down by a smouldering gaze belonging to a lawyer who had enough money that he could probably help pay off a small, third world nations health care fees for a few years. Ridiculous on so many levels. Sex with a giggler, in his opinion, was like, the ninth circle of Hell or something. He let his hand rest on the small of her back, trying to ignore the occasional giggles she smothered with a tanned hand, nipping at her collar bone, kissing to soothe the spot when she moaned and winced, his own eyes falling shut as he trailed his lips down even lower.

A small gasp left the woman's mouth at what he did next, and he couldn't help _but _smirk. Too, too easy.

She was in the process of threading her fingers through his hair, tugging him closer, when Alfred pulled away and rolled her off of him, unceremoniously dumping her onto the other side of the bed, stretching and yawning, acting absolutely indifferent and as if nothing had just happened between them, or the night before for that matter, acting as if there was not a sexy Latina prostitute lying naked and prepared for a nice ravishing beside him.

Getting out of the bed, grabbing his clothing from a chair, he started hauling it on casually, humming as he did so, tapping his feet and bobbing his head, sniffing. An insulted noise left the woman on the bed, and she folded her arms across her breasts, an offended look in her dark gaze. "Where are you going, Al?" she purred, crawling down along the length of the bed, flopping down and lying upon her flat abdomen, propping her chin in her palms as she watched him dress, a deep pout on her face. She probably thought it looked sexy, suggestive. He thought it made her look constipated. "I thought we were gonna, well, _you _know." She batted her eyelashes seductively, and Alfred found himself too desensitized to even care that she was trying to get him back into bed with her.

"Mmm, nah, I'm good," he said with a casual roll of his shoulders, back muscles rippling as he hauled his dress shirt back on. It was wrinkled, and it looked like there was lipstick on it. He turned his nose upwards with disgust. Fuckin' fuck. He _really _needed to stop wearing his good work shirts when he went out partying, especially if he had any intentions to partake in some, ahem, extra-curricular activities afterwards, especially those that were towards more of an athletic inclination.

He was redoing his tie up when the prostitute came over and slipped her arms tightly around his mid-section, burying her mouth into his shoulder. "Oh, but c'mon," she murmured, dragging a finger nail up and down the broad plains of his chest. The American rolled his eyes, sniffed, and pushed her away gently, sauntering across the room and grabbing the black Versace suit jacket draped across the vanity. Leaving her standing there, fuming and naked in the center of the room, he gave a her a small half-wave and winked as he slipped on his aviators. "_Ciao, bella_," he crooned, leaving the hotel room behind him as he mentally planned out the day that lay ahead of him.

When he got out into the hall, he heard yells of anger coming from the very room he had left, and the sound of shattering glass. He smirked, adjusting the collar on his dress shirt, looking cocky and incredibly sated.

_Someone_ was angry now, weren't they? Not like it was _his_ problem, though. So, he simply smiled and continued walking down the hall, whistling cheerfully, his steps jaunty and wide, looking as pleased as ever.

A short elevator ride later, and he was down on the main floor. The wide space was more or less vacant, and it made it even more beautiful than before. No one other than a few porters and concierges were wandering around, chatting idly amongst themselves, while a valet sat in an arm chair, reading the Times. Alfred felt a smile come to his lips as a yawn escaped him. The entryway was brightly lit, the crystal chandeliers overhead providing more than enough illumination for the vast, marble space, and he looked up in awe at one of them, chewing on the inside of his lip, wiping at his nose. When he pulled his hand away, there were a few droplets of blood there, staining his skin crimson, creating little webs of sanguine along the fine lines of his flesh. Hastily he wiped it away and then placed his fingertips to his nose. When he pulled them away, the droplets were tinier than before, and he sniffed. The running sensation had disappeared for the time being.

But it would be back.

It _always_ came back.

When he looked around as he crossed the lobby, he saw the eyes of several employees trained on him, and he smiled weakly at them. What he gave was returned slightly, and Alfred chose to continue on his merry way, not wanting to stop and chit-chat with any of them. The man didn't even bother with checking out of the hotel the way he normally would, deciding that it wouldn't be worth wasting his time on. Anyways, the hooker would probably check out, and the staff knew him well enough that, if she checked out before he did, he had more than likely already left the premises. Maybe that was a bad thing - the staff of a prestigious hotel knowing his habits. For a moment the thought disconcerted him, but he shook his head to brush it off, doing so with a sigh.

He glanced at the time on his iPhone before taking a pair of earbuds out of his pocket and placing them in his ears, turning his music on as he walked out through the revolving doors, jogging down to the edge of the side walk, hailing a taxi with the ease only a true New Yorker could have mastered. Briefly, he paused the music as a car slid up alongside where he stood.

Sliding into the backseat of the yellow cab, he stretched and yawned, "88 Leonard, please and thank you." He pressed play again, deciding a little bit of Bob Dylan would make for a good soundtrack to get home by, and settled in against the seat that smelt of chilli cheese dogs, fries and cigarette smoke, feeling himself settle in and relax quite quickly. While he adored his Mercedes, there was one thing he found: that you could not beat the smell and the comfort of the backseat of a New York City cab. There was just something about it - he could not say what, but all he knew was that it was there - that could not be argued with it, that nothing could top it.

The cabbie complied with a grunt, and as he watched the snow-covered streets breeze by, busy at even this early hour, people in a hurry to beat the morning rush hour, people that wanted to genuinely get to work early to get a head start on slaving away for the system.

And so began the day of Alfred F. Jones on a cold, Sunday morning in Manhattan.

* * *

He watched the dawn break through a haze of cocaine from the floor-to-ceiling windows in his apartment as snow fell in thick flakes, curling in lazy, drifting swirls, from the gray-blue sky overhead. As he watched, seated in his office, eyes half-open, everything felt surreal, like he wasn't part of it, just a voyeur. God, did that even make any sense? Coherent thought just wasn't happening for him for some reason, not that he cared.

Tanned hands trembled, his heart pounded rapidly in his chest and it felt like any other high. But there was something about this particular one that felt distinctly unsatisfying, like it needed an extra kick. Alfred knew that it was simply his resistance to the effects of the powder was growing exponentially, sort of the way his brother's waist line was going to go if he didn't watch what he was eating (then again, the man had always been a feeble little rake, so he'd probably have to eat food from every fast food joint on the east coast.). Doing four lines alone was not going to cut it anymore. Nothing he had done in the past three years mirrored the initial high he had experienced when he first tried the drug. And he knew he was never going to experience the same one again, but it didn't mean that he couldn't try, right? Despite that, he had at least a tiny modicum of intelligence remaining that screeched at him to just leave it all - his habits, his vices, _everything_ - as-is, to refrain from upping the dosage he did every day, twice a day, sometimes three if he was feeling exceptionally useless and exhausted, because anything more than four would be suicidal.

That, and he knew very well that his darling big brother (who was always watching, _always,_ that sly fucker) would go off his rocker and murder him if he accidentally overdosed on cocaine - or any other drug for that matter. The man would slit his throat, rip his arm off and beat him black, blue and straight into rigour mortis with it.

Not that he could be blamed for choosing such a violent course of action, though.

If anything, he had merited it.

Rubbing his face with one hand while the other dangled limply over the arm of his leather office chair, forearm resting on the arm of the chair, fingers point towards the floor, he mumbled incoherently to himself. One of his legs twitched mercilessly, toes poised on their tips. His laptop was running quietly on the desk, momentarily forgotten, the Windows Vista welcome page casting a blue-green reflection in his horn-rimmed glasses, its bright light illuminating his high cheekbones. He blinked slowly, as if finally remembering what his purpose for sitting there was, and fingers hovered above the keyboard for a brief moment before falling away once more and instead, he stood, choosing to pace his in-home office like a caged tiger, arms folded tightly across his broad chest.

He was too jittery to remain in place, too energized to just fucking _sit there_, at his desk and just browse through the morning news headlines on Google and CNN, too hyped to check the stock markets to see how his own shares were holding out. So, he did the most logical thing to burn that energy: he paced to and fro, barely aware of bumping into things as he went. If anything, he wanted to run. Just run and run and run. But, he was on the top floor in high-rise apartment building, so that was impossible; it wasn't like he could run around his apartment, flail his arms and jump around in an attempt to burn the energy he had sitting and simmering in his veins, begging to be expended.

So, yes, he just paced, staring out the window as he went, watching as the city below him came to life, yellow taxis lining the street - people in his building (lawyers, doctors, nurses, professors, people like _him_) leaving to catch their ride to work for the day. There was a look of disdain in his eyes, thin lips pulled downwards and into a deep frown. There was soft mewling from behind him though, and immediately he brightened, turning around. As he was pacing, his cat had pushed her way into the office and was now twining about his legs, meowing sweetly, asking for both her breakfast and a belly rub, greeting her human fondly after his absence that night.

Alfred smiled gently and crouched down beside the black and white creature, affectionately and aptly named Oreo, and massaged the spot behind her ear that immediately had her purring loudly and nuzzling her nose into his palm before she flopped down and onto her back. She stared up at him, green eyes heavily lidded before closing them as her purring increased while he tickled the white fur of her chubby stomach.

"I do believe you're the only constant in my life, Cat," he murmured after a moment, sitting on the fully on the floor and picking the cat up as he folded his legs beneath him, cradling the tiny body against his chest. For some time, he just sat there, stroking her neck, head and ears while she continued to let out noises of contentment that had her entire kitten-frame vibrating. Then, he noticed something that his drug-fogged brain considered to be relatively worrying: her body felt so delicate, so frail and weak in his arms, like as if she were to be set down the wrong way that she would break, that something would happen to her, something that would leave him alone, without a small little companion like her. He gave a thick, swallowing motion. Feeling a wave of panic wash over him, he placed a protective kiss on the crown of her black, furry head before placing her back down on the hardwood floor, resting immobile as Oreo wandered around her human another few times before scurrying away.

And his heart was beating so savagely against his chest that he barely realized that he had finally come down from his high.

Removing his glasses as he stood, rubbing his face, Alfred trailed behind the cat with slow steps, following her out into the kitchen. He gave a small smile and, with movements that felt leaden and sluggish, he opened up the cupboard beneath the sink. Immediately Oreo was at his side, mewling loudly, rubbing up against his legs, pawing forcefully in an not-so-subtle demand to be fed. All Alfred could think was that all she ever did was eat and sleep.

Laughter bubbled out of the New Yorker. "Hang on a sec, Cat," he chuckled pleasantly, an amused smile quirking the corners of his mouth upwards in a rare, loving smile. He hauled out a bag of dry cat food and shook it gently. Loud mewling increased exponentially in both volume and frequency. His own laughter grew louder as he poured the little seafood-flavoured kibbles into the red plastic dish, the entire while the cat was prowling about him with a hungry, greedy look in her emerald eyes. When he backed away from the dish, closing up the bag, the cat simply sat there, stared at the food for a long moment and then turned and trotted away, bottlebrush tail held high in the air.

Jaw dropping, Alfred spluttered as he was rendered speechless for a brief moment. Then, being the drama queen he was, he dropped onto his knees and threw his arms heavenward with an anguished moan of mock-self pity. He then flopped spread-eagle on his back, where he bellowed a shrill, "What do you _want _from me, Cat!", before giggling when he felt whiskers and a rough, sand papery tongue licking at his jaw, smelling distinctly of cat food.

Yummy, cat breath.

When he was once more left to his own devices by his four-legged feline roommate, after having the left side of his jaw thoroughly cleaned and now smelling of Whiskas Seafood Medley, he clambered to his feet and stretched languidly, masking a yawn as he did so. All the previous energy he had felt running through him, like an electric shock had been delivered to his system, straight to his heart and brain, had left him when the effects of the lines had worn off. It made his limbs feel heavy, his movements felt drawn out and sluggish, everything felt like it had been thrust into slow motion and he could already feel the craving to have more, more, _more _kick in full-throttle, making his joints weak, his body tremble. It was an insatiable hunger that he knew he would not be able to quench unless he mustered up every fibre of avarice in his being and finished off the bag of white powder, resting in his bedside table. A bag that bound to last him for at least another month and a half or so, taking him up until the middle of January. In other words, there would be quite a lot of cocaine consumed in one sitting, that was for certain.

So he stood and looked around his apartment, still in the kitchen, the vast open concept space suddenly alien to him. Did the things in there actually belong to him, or someone else? Was he an impostor or something? A groan of frustration left him and he ran his hands through his hair, walking over to the 'fridge, from which he removed a can of cola. He popped the top and sipped on it delicately as he hoisted himself up and onto the granite countertop, crossing his legs beneath him Indian-style. He brought the icy cold beverage to his forehead. Blue eyes fluttered shut and he sighed contentedly. Better than nothing, and at least this coke was carbonated and came in a recyclable can, not in a little bag from a Colombian drug lord.

The man did not know how long he had been seated on the counter, legs folded, head resting against the cupboards mounted on the walls when the iPhone in his pants pocket started vibrating and ringing at the same time. Fumbling, cursing, he hauled it out with a yawn and a dark look on his face: "What?"

"_Oh, well aren't you a pleasant arsehole first thing in the morning_," came the snappy reply from his brother.

"Not when you just woke me up, fuck face. What is it?"

Spluttering on the other line, and then: "_Of all the bloody nerve… anyways, when are we meeting at the NYU Library? Sometime this year, I hope?"_

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "Care to tell me what time it is?"

"…_You must be joking. Alfred, it's three in the bloody afternoon. What were you doing last night?" _A brief pause and, before he could answer, Arthur cut him off, "_Actually, no, I don't _want _to know what you were doing last night._"

Evil cackles escaped the lawyer in question, and he could almost picture his brother hitting his head off the kitchen table. "You mean _who,_ Eyebrows. _Who._"

"_If it weren't for the fact that my son is in the kitchen, I would be ripping into you so fast tha-_"

"Oh, Peter's there! Put him on, I want to talk to him!"

There was a moment of silence, and then soft chuckles from Arthur. "_Not a problem, Al. Just one second."_ Sound of clattering dishes - they must have been just finishing up a late lunch when his brother had called him - and the sound a delighted child.

"_Uncle Al?_"

"Hey there, little man, what's on the go?"

Giggles. "_I just ate my lunch. Daddy was gonna make it, but then Mummy got mad and said that she didn't want me getting food poisoneded, so she made me a sammich and it was tuna and really yummy do you like tuna, Uncle Al? Well, if you're my Uncle, then you definitely do. You gotsta! Anyway, I have my piano recital Monday night. You should come to see me play! I'll ask daddy," _Peter Kirkland, his seven-year-old nephew, babbled, screaming out for his father before the American had a chance to get a single word in edge-wise. Laughter bubbled up in the lawyer's throat as he tried to keep in the incriminating noises. "_Daddy said you can come. Do you wanna? Oh, pretty please, Uncle Al, it would be so much fun!"_

"Well of course I'll come with you guys, Peter. I'd love to see you play the piano," Alfred said, smoothing out the smile that was starting to hurt his cheeks.

An elated whoop from the boy's end, and suddenly Arthur was back on the other line, sounding utterly confused about what the hell had just happened as Alfred finally took that as the opportunity to burst out laughing hysterically.

"I absolutely love that kid," he managed to gasp between bursts of laughter.

"_I should hope you do, you sodding git,_" Arthur muttered, sounding equally sour as amused by his younger half-brother's reaction. "_Considering he's your only nephew._"

Smiling cheekily although he knew the judge wouldn't be able to see his expression, he shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, sliding down off of the counter, wincing as his knees cracked loudly in the process. "Listen, think you'll be ready in an hour's time for me to come and get you so we can head to the library?"

Shuffling in the background, a muffled conversation, and then Arthur cleared his throat. "_Yes, an hour sounds perfect._"

The two men said their goodbyes, and Alfred stood there for a moment, silent, as he looked around the apartment.

He had slept on the counter for six hours.

Wow. _That_ was a new one.

He had slept under cars, in trees, behind sofas instead of on them, in front of toilets - that was frequent - in bathtubs, anywhere he could get really. He had also slept, one time, in a dryer. _That_ was during a drunken game of hide-and-seek in his sophomore year, where he had thought, in his haze of Jaeger bombs, vodka and Captain Morgan, that hiding in the Kenmore dryer his friend's mother owned would be a brilliant idea. It was, considering he won the game because he had forgotten that the basement was an off-limits hiding place. That had been a very good time, though_. Very_ good. He had also learned at that particular party that Jell-O Shooters were _not _his friend.

Shaking his head ruefully, he turned on his heel and headed for the shower, ducking into his room to grab a change of clothing before he immersed himself in the flow, hoping to get at least a quick shave in as well before he left to pick up the older.

And of all the miracles that could have occurred that day, it was that he was five minutes early in picking his brother up, something that surprised the both of them quite a bit; the man was rarely ever punctual unless it was for court or happy hour, and half the time if it wasn't either of the two afore mentioned activities you could count on him not to show up at all. Utterly unreliable, but it was always a nice surprise when you could, for once, do just that: rely on him.

Parked outside his brother's house in his sleek, black Benz, he drummed his hands on the steering wheel, texting rapidly, while waiting for his sibling to come out and join him. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray before sending the message, pocketing the phone as he turned his gaze to stare out through the heavily tinted windows. Sure enough, his brother emerged from the house, Peter trailing after him and grinning as his father swooped down to give him a firm peck on the forehead, his dark-haired wife standing calmly at the door, a half-smile on her face. He watched as Arthur gave her a firm kiss on the mouth (his nephew made the appropriate _ohmigod how gross _face as he ran back into their home) before trotting down over the stone steps, suit jacket slung over his arm, brief case in his right hand.

Sliding into the vehicle, Arthur smiled at his brother. The man seemed distracted as he did up his seat belt before fully turning his attention on the younger. "I approve of this, you know, you getting here on time and then some for once in a while," he said.

Alfred scowled deeply, saying nothing and simply rolling his eyes before glancing in the rear view mirror as he hauled back out onto the road. Here, on one of the side streets near Central Park, it wasn't nearly as busy, the cars not quite few yet still at some distance apart. And, much like with the neighbourhood the lawyer himself lived in, the majority of the cars parked on the side of the road were luxury cars, sports cars and jacked-up regular cars. It was a money area, a spot where all the suits lived . But, getting through to NYU during the dinner rush hour was going to be tricky. He couldn't help but be thankful for the fact that he had scoured the city that many times that he could probably drive the entire metropolis blindfolded and backwards. Which meant he knew every short cut, where to take every illegal turn and get away with it, and where all the one-way streets were that would lead him to the university in record time.

Record time turned out to be a half an hour.

After much grumbling, cursing, illegal turns, a speeding ticket, a few near-misses at getting the front- or rear-end of the car totalled, and once incident where they almost met a dump truck in a head-on collision, they finally managed to arrive there in one physical piece (while the mental state of Arthur afterwards is still in debate by the nation's best psychiatrists, considering he nearly blew a gasket several times, and at one point, it looked as though he were going to have an aneurysm or something silly like that).

Alfred F. Jones endlessly gloated that it was his 'awesome driving skills' that had saved them.

Arthur Kirkland wanted to throttle him to within a millimetre of his life and join a monastery to declare himself part of a brotherhood of monks.

Not too much to ask for, right?

Well, apparently it was, because when he tried to, a group of innocent by-standers looked on, absolutely horrified, whispering amongst themselves. When he heard the word 'police' mentioned by one of the young women in the group, he immediately ceased in his assault. The American was smug at how things worked out in his favour, quietly thanking the group of girls huddled on the side walk, boyfriends looming protectively over them in case they might have been needed should things in the car escalate and spill over onto the grounds of the university.

The Briton was saying fuck a millimetre 'cause he was going to go the whole way in throttling his brother.

The two men (although the American's level of maturity was quite questionable in the green eyes of the Englishman) exited the car, walking closely side-by-side and muttering quietly amongst themselves, bickering in light voices, Alfred occasionally scowling while his elder half-sibling would roll his eyes and smack the younger on the arm and scold him for being impudent.

Walking in through the entrance of the library, the two men paused and looked about them, frowning heavily. Blue eyes turned to the left and locked upon bright emerald ones. "Do you know which way it is to the archives?"

A thoughtful pause of consideration. "I think the archives might be on the fourth floor," Kirkland offered with a half-shrug. "Should we go and find someone that's personnel to find out?"

He was given nothing more than a single nod in response, rooted in position as Alfred strode briskly away, steps clipped and purposeful, lips set in a determined line while his eyes were as cold and hard as the Atlantic Ocean in February. Arthur had a look on his face of slight awe and amazement. When it came to his job, when it came to anything related to the American justice system and upholding the law, the twenty-six-year-old was brutally focused, nothing would be able to even sway his attention elsewhere. Despite knowing, even in light of all of his excessive faults, destructives vices and other things of that genre, that the man was utterly devoted to his line of work, to the truth, to protecting those who needed (God only knew how many successful child abuse and rape cases he had taken the helm of) it, there were times that the Briton could not help but wonder if his brother suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder, or at least a _little_ bit of something that abhorred to his brain's chemistry.

Quickening his steps to keep up with the longer-legged American, he trotted just behind his brother muttering to himself vehemently.

Blue eyes turned to meet his. "What are you grumbling about, Fancy Pants?"

The American smirked at the spluttering sound his brother made - so predictable - and he shook his head lazily, blonde fringe flopping against his forehead while that stubborn cow-lick of his bobbed from the movement. Several minutes were spent discussing with the head librarian where it was they needed to head to, learning that the archives were actually located on the fifth floor and not the fourth. After telling his elder brother that his guess was close and very good considering he was a Limey and all that jazz, he patted the elfin blonde on the back and thanked the elderly woman was a small smile and a nod of the head. The entire time, the Englishman wondered why the hell his father had to have a second child, while trying to keep his exasperation from outwardly showing.

Ascending the stairs, hands tucked into the pockets of his dark wash jeans, Alfred said nothing more to his brother until they actually got to the archives, opting to simply look down the halls as they walked, soaking in the sight of teenagers and adults alike, seated at various tables in the library, some with laptops, some buried in piles of books and papers, and some with a combination of both. You could almost smell the stress that was in the atmosphere, the stress of people scrambling to make deadlines for the endless piles of papers they had to pass in - English, History, History of Art, History of God-knows-what-else, Politics, Law - and had fallen dreadfully behind on it all. It was a feeling the lawyer knew only too well from his years spent in Harvard law. His entire freshman year had just been one long, blurry scramble of frat parties, panicking the night before a major exam, writing research papers the night before they were due. He had made his freshman year of university a living hell, and he had come that close and dropping out altogether, but it had been so worth it in the long run.

Yeah, the general atmosphere of the library was one that he was used to. He spared a glance around the room and suddenly locked eyes with cold, hard blue ones that belonged to a boy with a narrow, pallid face. Lips seemed to be pulled into a smug smirk. He had a shock of white-blonde hair that was scraggly and stuck off every which-way possible, and there appeared to be something odd and yellow sitting on the top of his head, nestling down in amongst the strands of his hair. For some reason, he didn't find it surprising in the least when he plucked a little canary (a living, breathing fucking dandelion yellow _canary_) out of the mess of his hair, seemed to talk to it for a few moments before placing it back there.

The kid was probably an arts student; they were all fucking crazy as it was. So why not go around with a bloody fucking yellow canary in your hair while trying to do papers? Cool, kid, cool. You're fucking brilliant.

Travelling up over the final flight of stairs after ceasing in his stare down with the Kid With The Canary, adjusting the collar of his black turtle neck sweater, he rounded a corner, narrowly missed colliding with some poor young girl carrying more books than what she was probably capable of, as he made his way up over three steps and into a large, musty smelling room. The NYU Bobst Library Archives.

His brother came in a few seconds later, scowling at his younger sibling. "You know, Alfred, you could have at least helped that girl carry those books to her table considering you nearly took her out like a bloody Mack truck would a hare on the interstate," he chided, a deep frown on his face as his green eyes scolded him.

Alfred glared at him for a moment before smirking coldly. "And you could have very well done the same, Mr. I'm-Such-A-Bloody-Fucking-Gentleman."

Well, if he never been insulted before in his entire life, he had been now. The one thing the man from Canterbury, England took the utmost pride in was his social graces, his etiquette, his intelligence and the fact that he was, indeed, a born and bred gentleman. To hear something like that come out of his younger brother, of all people (although it should not have been surprising in the least), was not only insulting, but, well, it hurt. A lot. Arthur's eyes went wide and his cheeks started to turn red as he prepared to round upon and begin berating the American for simply existing when he was stopped by the blank look, accompanied by a scowl, he was being given. Black pupils in blue eyes were bottomless and arctic. The Englishman swallowed and glared, immediately diverting his gaze before he lost his infamous temper with the insubordinate lawyer. One of these days, Arthur decided to himself, that man was going to have a very rude awakening, and be damned if he wasn't there to see reality when it finally kicked in and kicked _him._ Nothing more was said between the two men as they headed over to the man that was in charge of the archives for the day lest one of the two just outright lost it at the other.

Approaching the desk, leaning forward and grinning at the bookish man behind the counter, a man with a gray bowl-cut, large wire-rimmed glasses and pale gray eyes, Alfred leaned his weight forward, any previous hostility having dissipated. "Afternoon, Sir," the lawyer said cheerfully. "My brother and I were wondering if we'd be able to get in and look at some newspapers dating between 2002 and 2007?"

Gray eyes met with his and, in a flat, oddly-accented voice, he frowned, "The archives close in an hour and a half. Will that be enough time?"

Thinking it out (well now, _that's_ what that burning smell was), Alfred ran a hand through his hair. "Is photocopying out articles allowed?"

A single, distracted nod, and the archivist continued flipping through papers, organizing them with rapid, nimble fingers and placing them into folders which he then proceeded to stack upon a trolley beside his chair. The work appeared monotonous, and Alfred would have dreaded having a job like that. "Yes, you may."

His thousand-watt grin returned by all but a tenfold, and Alfred rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. Which way is it to where all the newspapers have been archived?"

In response, he was given a half-hearted gesture towards the left, vaguely showing them which way they should probably go to find the newspapers that were the object of their quest, and he immediately re-immersed himself in the task he had been previously fully focused upon before they had arrived. With another quiet thanks given, Alfred walked away from the desk and in the direction of where the archivist had shown them, if you could really call pointing haphazardly _showing _someone where they needed to go, but oh well. Who was he to criticize someone for the way they did their job, whether it was done properly or not?

Well, who was he beside Alfred F. Jones, federal criminal prosecutor extraordinaire and the best lay North of the South Pole?

So, he was pretty damn awesome and maybe he did, after all, reserve the right to critique the man's actions towards visitors. But, because he was a nice guy and that wasn't something nice guys did, he wouldn't do it.

A minimal amount of people occupied the archives, which made commandeering the photocopier for an hour and a half a hell of a lot easier on the two men giving one another the silent treatment. The American knew very well that the only reason his brother was staying with him was the common interest between them: jailing that man for life and then some. Otherwise, he knew that Arthur wouldn't have even agreed to come with him to the library in the first place.

Finally, after nearly an hour of diligently working in utter silence, the only sound being that of the photocopier and the shuffling of papers, Kirkland hesitantly broke the thick silence between them, faltering before getting a proper start. "So, Al, do you still think you'll be able to make it to Peter's recital tomorrow night?"

Blue eyes glanced up and met with soft green ones before glancing back down to the papers he was sorting. "Of course I'll be there," he murmured, fingers stilling briefly as he took a shuddering breath. Arthur was watching him closely, eyes keen and hawkish. "Just … do you think you'd be able to pick me up for the show? I don't know where it is."

He smiled a small little smile, nodding briefly. "Yes, yes," Arthur said in an equally low voice as he once more approached the photocopier, a newspaper from January 2005 in hand. "I'll pick you up for around four."

(_And he knew very well that, if Arthur could have heard his thoughts from before, the British judge would declare him to be anything but a nice guy, and something more along the lines of a fox, backstabbing, sly and cunning, and an utter bastard through and through._)

* * *

Oh man. Is it lame that my mind is still being blown by the responses I've been getting for this story? Like, wooooooooow u guize. Woooooooooow. And I've also discovered that it's nearly impossible to leave off on a happy note with any of these chapters. XDD

I've discovered one really cool thing: listening to Ke$ha while writing that first scene (music is going to play VERY important role in this story, by the way), in the hotel room, made for really good inspiration because of the fact that they are both serious slags. Lolol Alfred's a whore ohmigod I hate myself for making him a manwhore but it just works out in favour of the story fmlfmlfml.

And, I have a little note for the next chapter: the material in it is kind of heavy with what it involves, so idk, brace yourself if you're super emotional/have a strong attachment to Matthew. I know I'll probably have a good cry and/or squirm-fest while writing it.

Thank you so so so so so much for all the reviews that you guys have been leaving me for this story. They're why I deciding to forgo studying for exams today so I could post the chapter a few days early before I have to sell my soul to the education system and slave out my insides over five 3 and a half hour exams that are worth half my year. FUCK YEAH SCHOOL NO. PLEASE.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE.**

The last person Dr. Ian McKnight, a psychiatrist of fifty-seven and of a fairly decent reputation, expected to see that afternoon was Matthew Williams, considering his next check up was in another month or so. Something else he also wasn't expecting to see was the young Canadian in the state he was when he was escorted into the room by his worried-looking secretary, her hand resting firmly on the taller boy's shoulder.

Two weeks ago, when McKnight had seen Matthew he had been depressed, but smiling and bright eyed, holding a quiet sort of hope for things in the somewhat near future. He spoke in that calm, eternally quiet tone of voice, and he joked, laughed, and seemed to be doing better all around. He had even gained some weight, which was a bit of a miracle.

Now?

The psychiatrist swallowed hard, feeling sick to his stomach as his head positively reeled from the stunned nausea he felt.

Now Matthew looked the way he did when he had first met him almost two years ago, being introduced to him in the psychiatric ward for the first time. Petrified, sick, malnourished and utterly devoid of anything that resembled life. The boy had spent a year and a half living on the streets when he had first met the him (who was only nineteen at the time). He had been hospitalized after being found by several street performers that knew him as well as one could a vagrant in the backstreets of Brooklyn, lying in a back alley with his wrists slashed all the way up to his elbows and a potent amount of alcohol in his system. From what they had said, he had screeched at them to leave him alone there, that there was nothing else they could do, to just leave him be. One of them, a young woman that ate fire to garner her living, cracked him over the back of the head with a block of wood, knocked him out, and had him brought to the hospital.

When he had met Matthew the first time, he had been in a medically-induced coma in the ICU at St. Vincent's hospital. It had been heartbreaking to see him, even if he didn't know the kid. For one thing, he didn't look like the sort of homeless person he had expected to be coming in to meet; the boy appeared to be relatively clean, his hair had a bit of a shine to it, and his face was unblemished. And to say that he was not a good-looking individual was a lie. He was not handsome in the traditional sense, but more along the lines of pretty, dainty, words not generally applied to men. It was a horrifying contrast to the fact that there were tubes down his throat to help him breathe, up his nose, wires attached to his chest, temples, everywhere and several needles carrying an intravenous solution as well as ones with blood and sedatives, slipped into his arms. And his forearms were covered in thick layers of bandages to conceal the stitching job performed there - over three hundred stitches on each arm. '_A work of art,'_ one of his colleagues had commented dryly, sadly. The only sound in the room had been the whirring of machines being used to keep him both alive and sedated at the same time, and the heart monitor keeping track of his infrequent heartbeats.

The second time McKnight had met him had been a week later, and Matthew was awake this time and fully alert, seated upright in bed, intently reading a novel. He was on the psych ward, no longer in the ICU. He was still connected to an intravenous, considering he had been refusing to eat. To say the psychiatrist had been surprised was an understatement once he saw what the boy had been reading at the time; virtually all of the homeless people he had ever worked with were poorly educated individuals - not to say that there weren't geniuses amongst them - and that had been the main reason they were homeless. But to see the boy ploughing through The Pickwick Papers like it was nobody's business, and with another stack of books ranging from other works by Dickens to Edmund Burke to Sylvia Plath to Jane Austen to a translated version of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables, yeah, it was absolutely astounding.

Indigo eyes, cold and calculating, had met with his as he stepped up to the bed. The first thing he had noticed was how empty they were. They were hateful, reproachful. They had made him feel naked as he stood beneath their scrutiny. Then he had noticed that the boy was terrifyingly thin and swaying slightly, eyes slipping in and out of focus from behind his glasses. He still hadn't been fully functional.

"_Hello, Matthew,_" he had said, approaching his bedside and tentatively sitting down upon the edge. He glanced to his wrists, which were still heavily bandaged. There had been signs of the linens having been tampered with, something he had filed at the back of his mind to let the nurse know. "_I'd like to introduce myself. I'm Ian McKnight, and, well, I'll be your psychiatrist for as long as need be._"

There had been no response for the boy simply kept reading, tuning the man out as he sunk back against the headboard, occasionally turning the pages, adjusting his glasses every once in a while. McKnight had sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair as he did so in exasperation. It was then he could tell that it would not be an easy task to get him to talk.

Six more failed suicide attempts later, as well as a botched robbery, and he found himself _asking_ the NYPD to bail the youth out, offering to pay the money in full, in cash, on the spot. He had taken him home, cleaned him up, fed him until he was so full he thought he was going to puke, and then proceeded to reduce him to tears with some emotional shock therapy. But it had worked for the most part, and much to his wife's displeasure at him taking home yet another stray, he kept the young man under his roof until he seemed at least somewhat stable enough - both financially and mentally - to find his own apartment and a job.

It seemed like it had all worked out for the best.

And here was Matthew now, slumped in the chair across from him on the other side of the desk, eyes bloodshot and turned downwards, face bone white and thinner than the last time they met. He visibly shook, teeth chattering and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Every now and again his eyes would flit about the room; he would chew on the tip of his thumb, or shift position in the chair. He would give a brutal, chest-rattling cough that would last for nearly minutes at a time, leaving him gasping and teary-eyed by the end. But he did not say one word to his psychiatrist. In fact, when the man thought of it, it looked like he had gone knocking on Death's door, only to have been rejected.

This went on for nearly ten minutes. McKnight alternated between typing up a profile report on another patient he had - a paranoid schizophrenic with extensive delusional episodes - and studying the youth before him. He withheld a sigh, feeling his heart sink. It was heartbreaking, really, considering they had made so much progress over the past year with his 'issues', as he liked to call them. It might have been an euphemism, and normally the man strictly avoided those, but he felt that they could simply be called issues now, not mental problems on a grand scale. Just something he needed to talk about every now and again with someone, someone that understood what it was he was saying.

Looking at him now, he felt the fear that they might be starting back at square one.

Silence prevailed for another extended period, and the man's displeasure with the situation was mounting with each minute that ticked by on the clock. Deciding that the silence - the boy's evasive tactics - had gone on long enough, McKnight shut the laptop as gently as he could, leaning forward and peering intently at his patient. Matthew still jolted and stared at the doctor, as though just realizing he was there in the room with him. His eyes were glassy and shadowed, occasionally slipping in and out of focus from behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

"Matthew, what brings you here so early?" he asked calmly, smiling gently at the boy as he adjusted his own reading glasses, removing them and setting them down upon the desk.

He was given a hum of acknowledgement, the Albertan refusing to meet with his eyes as he stared blankly at the floor.

"Was there something you needed to talk about?" McKnight prodded further, leaning in closer, frowning as his young patient shrunk back with a weak sound of protest.

There was absolutely no response this time. If it weren't for the fact that the younger man had made a whine in the back of his throat and how he pulled back, the psychiatrist would have begun to wonder if the young man was after falling into a catatonic state from how unresponsive he was.

Well, it was time for a change in tactics. He needed to get Matthew to talk. Now. The man straightened, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat. This bit of sharp movement caught the Canadian's attention, eyes flickering to him with anxiety. McKnight pressed forward. "Matthew, if you don't have anything to say, I'm going to have to ask you to leave and wait until your next session. Do you understand me?" He spoke in a quiet, harsh voice, but kept his expression gentle, brown eyes compassionate.

This elicited the reaction he had been aiming for, if any at all: "P-Please don't m-make me leave, Sir," he whimpered, edging forward in his seat, wringing his hands, his wrists, wincing. "I … I'm sorry."

Hushing him softly, covering a thin, icy hand with his own large one, he smiled as he called himself a bastard in his head in every language he knew. "Don't worry; you should know by now that I would not ask you to leave until you were comfortable. Now, be a good boy and tell me what's wrong. What happened?"

He was silent at first, mouth opening and closing as he seemed to struggle with letting the words out, struggling to find the right words to say to the man. Then he just seemed to give up. A choked noise left him, and then he buried his face in his hands, body trembling, after casting his psychiatrist a pained look. The sleeves on his Team Canada sweater tumbled down from the movement, soft but faded fabric pooling around the mid-section of his forearm. There were bandages there, wrapped hastily and speckled red, covering only a small portion of his arm. The remaining scars stood out vividly against his pallid flesh. The older man's face went white.

Oh, no.

No no no no _no._

'_Anything but that,_' he thought weakly, licking his lips as he felt them go numb.

McKnight felt his stomach turn leaden and a pain latching and digging deep into the center of his chest. Reaching across the desk, he took a hold of the bandaged wrist and pried it away from the Canadian's face, wanting to see for himself whether or not he was _actually_ seeing what was there, and was not just imagining it. The bone beneath his fingers felt brittle, and he could wrap his thumb and pointer fingers around the bandaged wrist with the utmost ease, overlapping the tips of his fingers as he did so. Expression blank for a moment, Matthew simply stared at the man as though he were trying to register what was actually happening. But then he finally seemed to grow aware of the hand on his wrist, gripping onto him. A hand that should not have been there. Panic took over and he recoiled so violently from the man that the chair tipped over dangerously, teetering perilously on its back legs as he dropped from it and onto the floor, elbows hitting the wood first, eyes wide as a startled yelp escaped him; inhaling and exhaling heavily, shakily. He scrambled backwards, cradling his wrist to his torso as the wooden chair hit the hardwood floor with a crash. Tears were forming in his eyes, and he let out a strangled sob, quickly standing and backing away as he covered his mouth, apologizing profusely, holding the back of his head with one hand while the other arm was wrapped around his thin middle section, resting just below his ribcage.

Instantly he was on his feet and cautiously approaching the boy, treating him as though he were a wild animal that could lash out at any given moment, without any warning whatsoever. At the movement, Matthew started to back away slowly, sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor, a combination of shame, anger and nervousness in his deep irises. Yes, it would appear they were, indeed, back at square one. "Let me see, Matthew," he murmured firmly, extending his hand and gesturing with his fingers. _Give it here, please._

Quickly, Matthew pulled back even further with staggering steps, looking somewhat petrified, shaking his head 'no', rapidly. Locks of curly blonde hair swung erratically from the movement, and his errant curl bobbed along with it. Tears were rolling freely down his cheeks now.

"Please, Matthew, let me _see,_" pleaded McKnight, stopping and standing still, hand still outstretched, beckoning silently for the wrist to be handed over.

"N-_No_!"

A sigh of frustration left him, and he rubbed at the nape of his neck, looking away from the boy and towards one of the paintings on the wall. McKnight studied it before he turned his gaze back to him. An idea was forming as he swept his eyes across the oil on canvas. God, he hated having to manipulate him to get his way - he knew some psychiatrists that loved it, that manipulating the mind of a suffering individual was probably one of their most preferred ways of treatment - but if he had to in order to procure results then he would.

Hoisting himself up so that he was seated upon the edge of the desk, he made a gesture with his head towards the painting. "Have you been doing much painting lately, Matthew?" he asked in a calm voice, leaning back, crossing his legs and watching as the boy's face contorted into a look of confusion, of apprehension. Slowly he shook his head 'no'. The psychiatrist to pulled a frown. "Why not?"

"I-I don't have the time to," he murmured. "I work fourteen hours a day, six days a week, and then there's Friday, where I w-work for twenty-six hours straight, and Saturday is the one day where I get to sleep, clean and do my laundry down at the Laundromat. I'd sell my _cousin_ on the black market if I could get even just … just an _hour _or two to sit down with a canvas and _paint._"

McKnight made a low humming sound, shaking his head as he considered the softly spoken words. "A shame, really," he said, half to Matthew, half to himself. "You're a talented artist, boy, and it's a shame to see such a talent go to waste."

Williams shrugged, swiping viciously at his tears. "Whatever, there are better artists out there than me," he muttered blackly, expression dark.

"Don't give me that self-demeaning bullshit, boy," he snapped with a scowl. The other jumped at the sudden harshness. "You're practically a Canadian Banksy, for the love of Christ. The only thing you don't do is paint your pictures on buildings all over the world."

A watery chuckle left the 'Canadian Banksy'. "Are you calling me an art terrorist, Dr. McKnight?" he asked in a tiny voice, sitting down in the other chair, leaving the fallen one on the ground, refusing to spare it a glance. The tiniest of smiles appeared for a brief moment upon his pale lips. "Well, maybe I am. Who knows, eh? Everyone has the potential. And anyway, that's not entirely true; my old school back in Grand Prairie has some of my art on the outside, and so did the school I went to in Brooklyn. Even though they suspended me for voicing my opinion on communism and capitalism, but whatever. Art is art, after all. Art's meant to scare, meant to confuse, to provoke, to teach. What good is it otherwise?"

He was silent for a while, contemplating his words, and how his mood seemed to rapidly turn around just by having art brought up. You could see it in the way his eyes instantly lit up, the way the tension left his body, how freely he spoke, how unguarded his words were. When it came to his work, Matthew didn't censor himself in what he portrayed or what he would later say about it. "True, true," McKnight said in a voice that was just as soft, leaning forward, expression intent as he watched his patient wipe at his wet eyes, coughing into his fist.

The two men lapsed into silence, McKnight seated on his desk, fiddling with some pens, while the other picked at the bandages around his wrist. He still trembled, swaying slightly, and the shrink sighed. "Please, would you just let me take a look?" Icy eyes shot upwards to meet with his own, and once more, he shook his head 'no'. Instead of looking at the man in front of him, he chose to stare at the wall, a fixture that was by far more interesting. The tears that had been filling his eyes spilled over once more, creating salty, sticky streaks down his face.

A sigh. "Well, it's either you show me, or I bring you to the emergency room and you show the doctors there and they'll stitch it up. Which will it be, Matthew?"

For a long moment Matthew stared at the floor. Then he extended his arm, even if only a little, but it was enough for McKnight to know that the boy was giving him permission to look - to survey the damage, or so to speak. That thought made his stomach churn again.

He carefully got down from the desk crossed the small space separating them, up-righting the chair as he went. Once more he took the fragile bones of Williams' wrist in his hand, expertly unravelling the linen bandages that covered his wrist and a portion of his forearm. They stuck briefly, fabric to open wounds, and he gingerly pried them away, watching his face for any signs of discomfort. The youth simply sat there, numb and detached. He wasn't surprised, simply disappointed, when he saw the mess of crude cuts lining his already-marred, white flesh.

Tears were falling heavier and faster than before as Matthew sobbed an apology, several of them, quickly, head lowered. The confident individual from just moments prior had disappeared, leaving him once more with the weak, emotional wreck that had entered his office what was going on an hour ago.

Something like this he found painful to watch, that being the boy revert back into the shell he had created for himself, and McKnight knelt before him, holding his arm with gentle hands, hands that were experienced in dealing with the suicidal tendencies of individuals, young and old, such as himself. He gently rubbed his arm in a soothing manner, hushing him gently. Time to start with the more routine questions. "Did you clean the cuts?" he inquired quietly, voice reflecting the obvious disappointment he felt.

Matthew nodded slowly. "O-Of course," he whispered. The man across from him had to strain to hear what he was saying, as his voice was lowered even further than usual.

They sat there in silence for another long moment as McKnight re-bandaged his arm gently, face drawn and his eyes downcast as Matthew muffled his sobs until they were non-existent. When McKnight let go of his arm he heaved a sigh of exhaustion, of dejection. The silence was broken by another chorus of apologies from the Canadian upon hearing the sigh his shrink had given, frantic to do as much as he could to right the wrong. Immediately he was silenced by a stern shake of the head and sharp eyes looking up to meet and lock with his own.

"I want you to be honest with me, Matthew," he said, voice firm. "Can you be honest with me?"

A single nod. Good.

He matched it with one of his own, and continued, "I want you to tell me what happened here," gesturing to the now-covered mess of a forearm.

A pained look flitted across his face, and he looked away, scratching at his temple, chewing on his lower lip - a nervous habit, something McKnight had noted within the first three months of therapy. "That's the thing," he whispered, looking somewhat embarrassed now, pink slowly rising into his cheeks, "I don't _remember_ what happened."

Arching an eyebrow, McKnight stood. Sitting down in the chair beside the boy instead of going over to sit down in his plush, leather office chair, he leaned his weight upon the wooden arm and peered at him, looking genuinely confused. "What do you mean you don't remember?"

Matthew ran a shaking hand through his hair, giving a congested cough that made his entire body shake from the force behind it. He swallowed thickly, panting. "E-Exactly what I mean by it," came the quiet reply. When he spoke next, it was in a low, dazed voice, eyes glassy as he recalled what had happened: "I went out into the living room to get my sweater. It was around maybe eight-thirty, nine o'clock last night. So, I stayed out there for a little while, looking over some bills, when I started to feel really, really sick. Anxiety sick. Then I went to the bathroom and, well, I don't remember anything else after that. I woke up in the bathtub, covered in my own f-fucking blood. What a cliché, eh?"

There was nothing he could say to that. Nothing to do that would remove the bitterness, the resentment from his voice, from his eyes. All he could do was continue in trying to get the story from the man - even though sometimes hauling teeth from a lion's mouth would have a higher success rate. "Think back," he instructed. "What could have caused you to relapse back into suicidal tendencies, even if they are all residing within your subconscious? How long have you been feeling this way again?"

He ran a hand through his wavy blonde hair, looking at his sneakers now. "A few days now," he said, tugging lightly on the curly strands. "I didn't think I would act on it, but I guess I had other plans…"

McKnight sighed again - God, he was doing that a lot today, wasn't he? - and shook his head slightly. "Why didn't you come to me sooner then?"

A sheepish look appeared on the other's face, and he looked away. "This is the first time I've left the house in a week now. I-I-I just haven't had the balls to," he muttered, his humiliation palpable. His previously waxy white cheeks were slowly gaining a nice shade of tomato red.

His eyes widened. "And what have you been doing? Have you been to work?"

A shake of the head. "I haven't been doing anything, just sitting in my apartment, trying not to have panic attacks every hour."

The frown on the doctor's face deepened. "I thought I prescribed you to 10mg of Valium, three times a day for your anxiety. Is it not working? What about the Zoloft? The Zoloft has never left you with suicidal thoughts before." He got up from his chair and walked around to the other side of the desk, hauling open a drawer and rummaging through it. He looked over to Matthew. He didn't want to have to increase his medications, or give him any new ones; it had only been six months since he had weaned him off of a 135mg dosage of Effexor and put him on the Zoloft, with simply a 120mg dosage three times a day.

"Oh, it's been working," he muttered bitterly, "and it would work better if I had any to take."

Spluttering followed this, and there was an incredulous look upon the man's face as the colour left his cheeks. Out of his medication - the thought itself was utterly absurd! "You're out of them _already_?" he demanded, voice shrill. "I thought I had gotten a five month prescription for you for-"

"Oh, no. _God _no," Matthew amended, shaking his head quickly, expression frantic. He ran his hand down along his face, removing his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose. "I-I should have explained that better. Sorry. Last week I got jumped in alley, and my bag got stolen. My medications were in my bag. _That's_ why I haven't been able to take any."

Mutterings of relief, and Dr. McKnight rested back in his chair, rubbing his face, massaging the bridge of his nose. "That had me worried there for a moment," he admitted. "From what you were saying, it sounded as if you were over-medicating yourself. Which, as I'm sure you know, would be a bad thing. Very bad, considering how much I have you on."

"Terrible indeed." An odd look flickered through the boy's eyes and he turned his gaze away, getting up from his chair and going over to look at his impressive collection of text books and encyclopaedias on various medical practices.

At this, McKnight shook his head and hauled out the pad he had been looking for in the drawer. On it he started scribbling down two identical prescriptions to what he usually gave Matthew. "I suppose the only thing left for me to do now is give you what you need," he said distractedly as he signed the two prescriptions with his sloping, looped signature. He tore the two pieces of paper from the binding of the pad and stood, adjusting his jacket and motioning for his patient to follow him. "I'll get your pills," he said, "and then you can join me for lunch, alright?"

Matthew nodded, an anxious look flickering to life in his eyes as he squirmed on the spot. "C-Couldn't I just wait here for you to come back w-with it?"

"No, you need to be present." Another flagrant lie; the boy needed to fight over and against his anxiety, push it back to keep it from preventing him from functioning, like how it was right now. "And anyway, there's some things I got for you and I don't plan on coming back here once I pick up your pills."

Expression clouded, he sunk down in the chair and wrung his hands. Then, after a moment or so, he nodded and stood. He trailed close behind the doctor as they left the cozy, cluttered office, the heavy door shutting with a click that resonated throughout the hallway. Anxiety practically rolling off of him, he walked a few paces behind the doctor, hands in the pockets of his jeans, casting his gaze about him warily.

By the time they got to the end of the hall, Matthew was practically clinging to the doctor, holding onto the elbow of his jacket, trembling from head to toe and watching sharply as med students and other doctors of various fields strolled past him. His breathing was shallow, anxiety so crippling that it was even affecting his respiration. Should he check the Canadian's pulse, it would more than likely be spiralling out of control.

A pang of guilt resonated in McKnight's chest; he probably should have let Matthew stay in the office after all until he had gotten back, let him take a pill, and stay there until it kicked in.

By the time they got to the main floor pharmacy - three floors away - Matthew was more or less a nervous wreck. It sounded like he was getting close to hyperventilating despite having his lips pressed so tightly together. As badly as he wanted to know what was going on in his head, he wasn't about to stop and ask. Anyway, it wasn't like he'd get an answer out of him that was coherent. Blessedly enough, the pharmacy was empty of anyone else. Matthew visibly relaxed, his breathing easing back into a relatively normal pattern, but he still clung with a devastating firmness to his doctor's arm, his pale, thin hand latched around the man's bicep.

Sighing as he handed the two prescriptions to the pharmacist, a recently graduated student, he smiled at the young woman and nodded politely. "Just those two for now," he said, "I'll be back to pick up my pain killers later."

With a smile of her own, and one directed to Matthew - who noticeably shuffled back a couple of steps, averting his gaze as politely as he could manage while scrounging up a smile - she went over towards the shelves and set to work, getting the pills ready for the doctor.

Glancing to the stock-still, wide-eyed youth, he frowned lightly. "Matthew, why don't you go over and grab me a bottle of water, so you can take a pill as soon as I get the prescription?" Eyes went wide and he returned to assaulting his lower lip with his teeth.

Nodding mutely, Matthew lumbered over to the stand-up cooler and browsed through its contents, thin, spindly fingers brushing along the labels as he focused on them, reading each individual label on the different bottles. Settling on a plain old spring water, he plucked it off the wire shelf, shuffled back over to the doctor. He passed it to him, practically timid. Indigo eyes were glassy and dull behind smudged lenses, locked upon the floor and unfocused. He had his hands clasped by his waist, fingers locked tightly together. They were trembling, as if he were affected by a frigid cold breeze drafting through the vicinity.

Some ten minutes later, two containers were handed to McKnight, which he quickly paid for and handed to the Canadian. Matthew took them with a tiny, barely-there 'thank you' and, after a brief struggle, managed to pop the orange cap off of the pill container and quickly dry-swallowed a Valium pill, chasing it down with a gulp of water. Eyeing the container, it was as if he was tempted to take another one but, before the doctor could say anything, he popped the cap back on and proceeded to do the same with the container of Zoloft.

He sighed, shaking his head. "Give me half an hour, and I'll be b-best kind again."

McKnight said nothing; simply looked at his patient sadly and gestured for the young man to follow him to his car, removing the keys from his pocket as they walked side-by-side down the brightly-lit, sterile hallway. Fluorescent lights bounced off the pristine white tiles they crossed, and seemed to brighten the pale green, pale yellow paint job the hospital walls were decorated in. Walking at such a leisurely pace felt so unbelievably relaxing; made all the stress drain from his body; left him feeling calm and at peace. He glanced to the slightly shorter man, wondering if he felt the same way. It was impossible to tell; his face was a perfectly blank slate, devoid of anything. But, because of the way he wrung his hands continuously, it clearly didn't have the calming effect it was supposed to have on patients coming in and out of the hospital.

Another flight of stairs down towards the parking garage beneath the hospital, and the two men were piling into the doctor's SUV. As McKnight slipped into the driver's seat and Matthew into the passenger, he observed the young man seated next to him. It had only been ten minutes since he had taken the pills, probably less, and the tremors had already lessened. He was no longer sweating, the glassy, 'I'm-gonna-pass-out' look had left his eyes and, all of a sudden, the doctor wanted to smack himself black, blue and peculiar shade of yellow for not realizing it sooner: he had been going through withdrawal symptoms from the pills he had been taking.

Which meant something belonging to a whole new ball game - a dependency had been formed, meaning that he probably wouldn't be able to function without them, unless he was weaned very gradually off of them and went through a light rehabilitation. And from the eagerness with which the Canadian took the pills, he was beginning to wonder if maybe that dependency was in all actuality an addiction.

Turning out into traffic, swerving out around a parked taxi, he briefly fiddled with the radio as his thoughts continued to roam, going through all the mental files he kept on the young man in the seat next to him, the young man that was staring out the window and watching everything pass by with the slightest, poorly-hidden fascination. He couldn't remember for the life of him if the boy had a history of past addictions. He knew from talking with him that he was a heavy weed-user and binge drinker while in his last year of high school where he attended a private catholic school in Brooklyn.

And it was there his thoughts hit a dead end. While he knew Matthew had spent a year and a bit living on the streets, engaging in busking, theft and painting pictures of people upon request in Central Park, he knew minimal else of that year and a half of his life. Did he continue to engage in drug use? Did it get worse? He spared the youth another glance. Matthew was still staring out the window, singing along to the radio - The Clash. He couldn't help but smile at that; the kid was a little bit of a punkass brat at times, too, when it came to his views on society and the government. It wasn't surprising that he would favour a band like The Clash. Back to the question at hand: his supposed drug usage, and whether or not he had engaged in it while living on the streets between Brooklyn, SoHo, and Manhattan. Probably not; he remembered, from the toxicity reports the only thing that had been in his blood stream (prior to his stomach being pumped several times) had been a damn near suicidal amount of alcohol. No drugs, whether they be over the counter or recreational. Though that wouldn't be able to account for the months prior to that incident, when the drugs could have been entirely purged from his system…

God, there was far too much of a thought process involved for this sort of thing, especially for someone going on their lunch break. He ran a hand along his balding crown and slowed the vehicle, easing on the break before pulling into a parking lot nestled alongside a rather quaint-looking restaurant, hoping to avoid hauling the front end of his SUV into a snow bank instead of a parking spot, where it belonged. It proved to be far more difficult than what he had thought it would be. The pile of icy snow was only narrowly avoided and, after straightening the vehicle out another few times so that the wheels were aligned, he shut it off and got out, tugging his suit jacket closer to his body as he half-ran over to the entrance of the café, carrying a bag with him. Matthew trailed along behind him lazily, looking upwards towards the sky as he watched the flakes fall, laughing, screwing up his nose and coughing as the little white frozen droplets descended upon him and clung to his hair, cheeks and eyelashes. It seemed as though he were in no hurry, the way he strolled casually along the snow-covered pavement, kicking at chunks of ice here and there, face still turned skywards.

McKnight smiled; well, at least the medication had finally kicked in for him, as sad as the thought was.

Stopping despite the cold - really, how could he complain of the cold when he had a warm suit jacket and scarf while the boy had no more than a thin sweater? - he waited for Matthew to catch up to him, the smile on his face growing despite himself.

Noticing the man waiting for him, Matt gave a sheepish grin and jogged over to him, nearly wiping out on a patch of black ice in the process - an ordeal that included much arm-flailing and body-twisting, as well as whimpering very unbecoming of a man - as he approached his shrink, seemingly unaffected by the icy, bitter New York air. Cheeks, despite being so thin, were rosy and looked healthy, his eyes sparkled behind his glasses instead of being so dulled and, as he walked alongside the doctor, there was the slightest bounce in his step. He didn't say anything, though; just observed everything around him, taking in everything: all the fancy cars and men and women in suits, high-rise office buildings, the court house down the road, assessing it all and more than likely forming an opinion he would store away and employ in a painting. His gaze, however, seemed to linger on the court house for a moment longer than anything else - a case was just after getting out, so perhaps it was the people that were after capturing his attention. Before he could ask, Williams was looking elsewhere already.

Pushing open the door and stepping back, allowing Matthew to enter first (at this he made a face of disdain, commenting indignantly that he wasn't some damn woman what the fuck did he think he was doing?), McKnight followed closely behind him, noting the sniff of displeasure given by the maître d' upon seeing the young, waif-like man. Matthew caught the look as well; he cast his eyes downwards and the smile fell from his face, leaving him expressionless once more. The psychiatrist cast the man in a white dress shirt a scathing look, which the other caught and promptly averted his eyes from.

"This way, Sirs," he said, looking down along his nose at the Canadian that was now fiddling distractedly with the bandages that peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his sweater.

Trailing along behind the waiter, McKnight pressed his lips to Matthew's ear and whispered, "stop picking at it, Matt; you'll make a mess of it and it'll get infected."

"_Fiiiine_." Immediately his fingers fell from the beige material and he pursed his lips stubbornly, cheeks puffing as he did so. The New Yorker couldn't help but let out a few chuckles, which caused the young man he was following behind to scowl deeply before averting his gaze as his cheeks slowly turned a rosy shade that wasn't from the warm, cozy confines of the elegant café they were in. A fireplace on the far wall blazed, keeping the main floor well heated, casting a glow across the nearby tables that were, for the most part, empty.

Beside the two men, there were only three other tables occupied: one lone man reading a newspaper, two coloured men engaged in a lively game of cards, their laughter blending in smoothly with the light jazz music that played from a record player - he watched with amusement as Matthew did a double take upon noticing the authentic gramophone on the counter - and the other table, this one near the windows by the fireplace was occupied by two young women, more than likely gossiping as they took a break from Christmas shopping. Bags from JC Penney and Macy's were piled on the floor. White lights hung about the large, ornately decorated space, amongst pine garland, silver and burgundy Christmas decoration. A pine tree stood in the corner nearest to the washrooms, decorated and lit up beautifully, little presents piled beneath it on the floor.

'_Another two weeks,_' he noted as they were handed menus, '_and it'll be Christmas Eve._'

The thought was somewhat alarming; it felt as though just last weekend he was having Thanksgiving dinner with his wife and kids. Resting back, he pulled open his menu and started to gaze down through it, pursing his lips in thought as he brought a cigarette up to his mouth. He turned to Matthew, who looked half-heartedly at his own. "Order whatever you want, Matt," he instructed around his cigarette, "I'm footing the bill anyways, so it really doesn't matter what you get - just no wine, since you've just taken your medicine."

If anything, Matthew looked embarrassed. "Are you _sure_?" he inquired, shifting nervously in his wooden chair, chewing his lower lip.

"Yes, yes, it's no problem at all," he said with a smile. Given what he had already spent on him, it wasn't even a ripple on the surface.

Sighing, nodding, Matthew fiddled with the ends of his curly hair, eyelids at half-mast skin as he studied the menu, saying nothing until the waiter returned. He had a notepad and pen in hand, to take their orders.

The tall youth looked to McKnight first. "And what would you like to order this afternoon, Sir?" he inquired politely, a smile on his face that was as fake as ever. The psychiatrist could see right through it and the smile he gave him was only a half-assed one.

"I do believe I'll order the shrimp cocktail ring, a bowl of alfredo and a side of cesar salad," he said, nodding with approval as he handed the menu, now carefully folded and shut, to the waiter. He promptly slipped it under his arm as he inquired about a beverage. "A small glass of Sherry, please."

Turning to the blonde on the other side of the table, the waiter smiled, but did not appear to be nearly as friendly as when he had taken McKnight's order. "And you?" No 'sir', either, the psychiatrist noted with a frown.

Matthew noticed it as well; his face fell and he faltered before speaking: "I-I do believe I'll order a plate of rice pilaf, with grilled chicken breast in a sautéed mushroom sauce and garden salad on the side." He looked hesitantly across the table to the man buying his lunch, anxious. Realizing what the look meant after a moment of brief confusion, he smiled and nodded, which was much to the Canadian's obvious relief, as he visibly relaxed in his chair. When prompted for a drink, he quietly asked for a glass of water.

As the waiter left their table with reassurances that their drinks would arrive soon, Matthew's expression went blank and he stared at the man across from his, anything but pleased. "Well, he was a pleasant little fuck and that was anything _but _awkward" he said dryly, expression icy as he watched the man leave. "Jackass."

McKnight masked a snort; yeah, the medications had kicked in, alright.

The youth leant backwards in his seat, studying the room, eyes keen as he took in everything, wary of every little bit of movement that caught his eye. All in all, he looked absolutely fascinated.

Then, McKnight blinked and muttered beneath his breath, leaning over to the side to retrieve the reusable bag on the floor, placed by his feet. "I almost forgot: I have some books for you, Matt," he said, picking the bag up off the hardwood flooring and placing it on his lap. He grimaced when he realized it was slightly damp from being in the trunk of his SUV for a day or two now - hopefully the books weren't damaged - and he started to remove novels from the confines of the bag, watching from the corner of his eyes as the Canadian's face more or less lit up with delight. Give him clothing or care packages? He would turn them down unless forced to take it. Bring him cooked food or take him out to dinner? You usually had to persuade him, unless he was absolutely ravenous. But bring him books and art supplies, or better yet, books on art? He would thank you for days on end, and in fact he would probably keep on thanking you if you didn't tell him to shut up.

Handing the stack seven novels deep across the table for inspection, he couldn't help but smile as Matthew's face was positively split in half by a large smile. He browsed through the titles, murmuring them beneath his breath as he went. His gaze locked with his, and they were filled with the utmost gratitude. "Thank you so, so much, Dr. McKnight," he gushed, cheeks pink.

McKnight laughed. "It's no problem, and you know it," he reassured, leaning across the table and picking one up from the pile. "This one I think you'll like quite a bit. It's not quite as sophisticated, shall I say, as your tastes, but I know you love a good story just as much as the next person. But I have a feeling you'll like it." It was a small book with a yellow-green cover and the text on it read The Perks of Being a Wallflower. A musty smell rose from it as he flipped through the pages - obviously it had spent quite a while at the back of someone's closet or in a box in a basement. "I know I quite enjoyed reading it when I borrowed a copy of it some years ago." The Canadian looked pleased as he nodded, setting it down on top of a battered copy of Lolita, one book McKnight knew the boy had been dying to get his hands on for a while.

Glancing back down into the bag, he blinked and then laughed lightly. "Forgot one," at this Matthew's eyes went even wider and his cheeks flushed even darker. He handed his dining companion the brand new book, something which obviously surprised the boy considering he was usually given second hand copies of novels, but he took it anyway, careful with the unbroken spine as he ran calloused fingertips along the smooth, cold cover.

"Holy _shit,_" Matthew said (ever-so-eloquent) as he stared at the art book - a book with all of his favourite artist's works in it - with a look of utter childish delight. He barely noticed as the reusable bag was set down next to him as McKnight placed the novels back in. He flipped through the pages, still smiling idiotically, positively glowing. It wasn't very often he got new books, let alone books on art that were brand new. This was _amazing_.

It was only when the waiter brought their plates over some fifteen minutes later that he put the book down into the bag, placing it gently on the top as he stared apprehensively at the food before him, hesitantly placing his fork into the piece of boneless chicken breast, smothered in a brownish sauce. He cut it up into small, dainty little bites with his knife, placing a piece of chicken in his mouth. He chewed it slowly, thoughtfully, and then a look of what could only be described as the utmost bliss appeared on his narrow face. A small smile made itself at home on his lips and after a moment he had another piece as McKnight happily munched on some shrimp, sipping Sherry from his crystal wine glass.

Their conversation dwindled until it disappeared altogether as they dined, neither man bothering with breaking the affable silence that had formed between them. The only noise breaking it was the clink of cutlery on bone china plates, and the jazzy Christmas music that played low in the background. While it took absolutely no time for the doctor to finish his meal, it took his companion nearly half an hour, considering how he took his time as not to eat so fast that he'd puke. Judging from the looks of it, with the tight patience with which he employed while eating, he was restraining himself from simply digging in. He couldn't be sure if it was simply from trying to impress and behave properly while out in public, or from not having eaten a good meal in days.

Considering the two options, he watched his patient for a moment before averting his gaze lest he get caught staring, he realized that was probably because of the latter; on a regular basis the man was perhaps one of the politest people to dine with, considering how he practically never spoke, actually knew his way around which forks and knives to use, and other odd little forms of etiquette that Ian McKnight rarely paid any heed to. Actually, now that he thought of it, dining with him made him feel almost self-conscious about how quickly he had eaten his food. As for him not having had any good meals, that seemed to be the more logical option, especially when he considered how tiny the young man was.

When his fork and knife were set down, Matthew finally rested his elbows on the table as he propped his cheek in his palm, sipping water from his wine glass as he stared into the fireplace on the other side of the room. There was the slightest flush of warmth tingeing the tips of his cheeks a pale pink, and he looked sleepy as his eyelids drooped steadily. Absolute contentment was all it could be described as - and it was a feeling the man knew well; a good, hot meal that was filling after not having eaten anything good in days was perhaps the best feeling in the world.

Nudging Matthew's leg with the toe of his shoe when he saw his eyes close all the way, he bit back a soft laugh when the boy jolted, looking slightly disoriented, eyes going wide as his cheeks reddened; he had been caught falling asleep. Talk about humiliating. He looked positively embarrassed, and he shifted awkwardly in his seat, muttering a sorry and rubbing the nape of his neck.

"Not to fret, m'boy," McKnight said with a chuckle he couldn't help but let out. The Canadian seemed relieved, but he didn't go back into the same position he had been in before. Instead, he remained seated up-right, staring at the fire and humming softly, drumming his fingers steadily upon the cloth covering the surface of the table they were sitting at.

"I used to work at a place like this when I was sixteenish," he commented in an off-hand manner, eyes hazy. His gaze had turned from the fireplace and was now observing the world that was quickly turning white beyond the protective glass of the restaurant's foreface. Snow was falling heavier than before and was being whipped around in the busy street. The foolhardy people that were out walking bundled up tightly in their winter parkas, trying to conceal themselves from bitter winds that were starting to pick up.

McKnight quirked a white eyebrow. "Oh?" he asked, curious. It wasn't very often the boy would bring something up from his youth, especially on his own accord or outside of his office. He was surprised, but he didn't want to deter him from continuing. That, and he really was interested in hearing what he had to say about having worked at a high-class restaurant. "What did you do?"

"I used to play my violin during the dinner hours with the house band," he said in a somewhat faraway voice, smiling with a sort of fondness as he recalled the memory. "Or sometimes the piano, if they really needed someone for it. It was all fairly varied, really, and my boss was amazing. Very understanding, very flexible when it came to hours. Only condition was that I worked until one every Saturday night, but he would drive me home. It was probably my favourite job."

Now, that was unexpected; he had been expecting the youth to say that he had worked as a waiter or something, maybe even something similar to what he did now - a dishwasher. The last thing he had anticipated was him working as a musician, especially at such a young age, in a city where playing restaurants as such was a hard gig to get into. "You used to play violin?" Dr. McKnight inquired, finding himself growing intrigued by this sudden admission; in his eyes, Matthew was the last person he would have expected to been into playing music as well as listening to it. "What kind of stuff did you play?"

"On the piano I mainly played jazz and classical, while with the violin I used to play classical and Irish fiddle music," he said, a look of pride forming in his eyes as he smiled at the memory. "The piano was my favourite though; I spent almost twelve years at it. Five-year-olds make terrible pianists, just so you know, unless they have the attention span of a statue. I had the attention span of a goldfish, maybe even worse than that."

Laughter followed his statement. Brown eyes soft as he studied the artist before him, he found it quite nice how Matthew seemed to be opening up a little more with each session they had - and although this wasn't part of a therapy session, it was still a good thing that he was finding himself comfortable enough to causally discuss things like this and without no prompting. Normally he was tight-lipped about his past, much more keen to focus on the present and the future. He had even said it to him before, that the past for him is dead and that the only thing he had to even somewhat look forward to was the future. Even though he didn't believe in that all the time, either, but it was a start, and with each time he and Matthew were together, he noticed it growing more and more.

Most doctors and patients didn't see one another outside of the office, or home if house calls were to be made, and when they did, they were usually awkward run-ins that consisted of tense postures, off-hand comments and wary smiles. But, to an extent, McKnight liked to consider Matthew a part of his family; the young man _had _lived with him for nearly a year, after all. His wife had a certain fondness for the boy, constantly wondering if he'd have time to come to dinner. She asked about him frequently, inquiring about his progress. While those things were most certainly confidential, something that had to stay between the doctor, the patient and any superior forces inside or outside the sessions, McKnight didn't hesitate in sharing anything with the woman he had married some thirty years ago. And he knew that Williams would not mind it, either; on more than one occasion Matthew himself would ask him how Peggy - his wife's name, of course - was doing, and seemed to be pleased when he heard that the woman that had acted as a second mother to him for that year was doing splendidly. They invited him over to stay on holidays, for dinner and if it was a two or three-day holiday, usually for the night or duration of the period, sort of to give the young man a breather, and sort of to make sure he wasn't always alone.

While casual relationships with a patient were usually considered odd, Ian McKnight did not think it was, not when it came to the fact that he felt somewhere along the lines of a concerned father for the boy.

"Why did you stop playing, may I ask?" McKnight asked tentatively, finishing the last bit of his Sherry, setting the glass down upon the table, dragging his fingertip along the thin rim,

A sad sigh passed Matthew's pale lips, and his expression dulled as he propped his cheek in his palm. "My step-father sold my violin after my mother died," he muttered, "and he made me quit my job at the restaurant. Said he didn't want me pursuing some bullshit bohemian career or some shit like that. I don't really remember all the details. He wanted me to be an accountant. So I said, 'fuck you' and left. Actually, more like I said 'fuck you' and he kicked me out the day of my eighteenth birthday, but that's trivial." He gave a cold, dry laugh, shaking his head, blonde fringe flopping against his forehead.

There was nothing he could say to that, nothing that the boy didn't already know, and there was nothing that he could say that the boy hadn't already heard, or didn't want to hear - he knew that he did not want anyone's words of pity, of 'oh, I hope it all worked out/works out for you!'. Most of the time, they were simply empty words, words that you would say in an awkward situation where you didn't want a silence to hang thick around.

When it came to Matthew, he knew the boy would much rather silence than forced comfort.

Then, a thought came to mind: "What are you going to be doing come Christmas, Matt?"

A shrug. "The usual," he said flippantly. "I'm spending Christmas Eve with Gilbert and his dorm mate playing video games and watching movies, but as for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, I have no plans." He placed his glass to his lips and drained back the remaining bit of water there before setting the crystal wine glass back down onto the white table cloth.

"Would you like to spend it with Peggy and I?" McKnight asked as he started to stand when he was passed the bill for their meal. He accepted it with a small thanks, removing his credit card from his wallet, not even bothering to take a look at how much the meal had come to.

The Canadian followed suit, a smile forming on his face as he shouldered his zip-up sweater once more, pulling it tightly around his frame, zipping it up and straightening it out. "I'd love to," he said quietly, nodding politely to the waiter as they made their way over to the counter to pay for the meal, Matthew with his bag of books in hand. With a smile on his face, one that was sort of dazed, he continued to gaze around the café, obviously at peace.

As he paid for their meal, when the cashier walked away, pocketing the tip and leaving some for the waiter that had taken care of their meal, he looked down to the shorter man, a frown forming on his lips. Other than the brief mention of Gilbert, whom he knew to be one of Matthew's co-workers, the boy was utterly alone. He hadn't heard of him having any other friends, there was no one he ever really brought up during their sessions together, or at least no one that was alive or that he continued to associate with now. Yeah, he was alone alright, and that was something McKnight didn't like at all; it was something that was worsening his depression, and possibly his anxiety.

"You know what you need, m'boy?" He leaned against the counter, staring at his companion, rubbing his thumb along his chin.

Matthew looked at him curiously, something that ranged between apprehensive, intrigued and skeptical. Asking despite the fact that he probably should have known better than to humour the man, he shrugged. "What do I need?" he asked in a somewhat amused-sounding voice.

"I think you need someone in your life," McKnight explained, watching for his reaction. It was a gradual one, including his cheeks turning pink and squirming on the spot, mumbling vehemently beneath his breath. "Like, a significant other. Even if it's only a girlfriend or something. An amazing best friend. Hell, even a gold fish would be better than nothing. But you definitely need someone in your life, and soon. We don't need you turning into a bitter old spinster at the ripe old age of twenty-one, now do we?"

The only reaction Matthew Williams could produce was an incoherent sort of spluttering/fumbling with his tongue for words to say as his cheeks flooded with the colour crimson and he was escorted out of the café by his laughing psychiatrist. The man had his warm hand on his (_far too thin. Is that healthy?_) shoulder, patting him gently there, in a consoling manner. At this, the Canadian made a snuffing noise through his nose, rolling his eyes. Someone in his life, indeed. The nerve. Well, that was what probably what he wanted to stay; McKnight could tell it from the conflicted look in his dulling eyes, the way they would flicker, the way he would gnaw on his lower lip like it was a particularly tasty sweet.

Sadly, the man was more than right in saying so.

And Matthew knew it all too well.

* * *

So, this chapter was originally going to be from Matthew's perspective, not his psychiatrist's, but I thought it would be a little more fun this way (If you can call Mattie being suicidal, deprived of his medications - kudos to **Mr. Tomatoe **for pointing that out! - and absolutely neurotic because of it 'fun'). You know, to be on the outside, trying to get a look in, which is, in reality, what McKnight is trying to do. And it has also given you guys some insight as to what Matthew's after going through. Hopefully his anxiety doesn't come off as overdramatic considering it's being based off of someone I know very well; one of my best friends is affected with both fairly crippling anxiety and PTSD.

As for the rest of his past, it'll more than be likely explained in scenes involving Alfred, his psychiatrist, and another character that I've yet to introduce, but I'm not saying anything about who he iiiiis~ /coy sneaky bitch. I'M DYING TO BRING HIM IN BUT I HAVE TO FUCKING WAIT TIL LIKE CHAPTER 20. The dinner scene wasn't supposed to be this chapter, it was actually supposed to be later on and Alfred was supposed to be there, too, but I changed all that around, just so the entire thing wasn't a _total _downer for you guys. Hopefully it's not too much of a downer as it stands, and I promise, next chapter we're gonna get into the plot, even if it's just a foot in the proverbial door/closet. Promise. At least the Christmas Eve chapter will definitely be a good time all around, right?

Anyways, reviews are love! And thank you so so so much for all the faves, alerts and comments you guys. -heartsheartshearts-


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX.  
**_And this is where, as Betelgeuse once said, we can now say: "It's show time!"_

Like the American Idiot that he saw every day of his fucking life, the cough Matthew had developed was just _not going away_. It was like he was after procuring AIDs for his lungs. Life itself was kind of like a disease, really. He hated it, plain and simple. The general thought he had, prior to getting back on the medication, was that _alright, now my thoughts are going to clear up a little again, and everything will be back to the way it was, even if that wasn't the greatest, either_.

Each day that went by was like some nightmare he could not escape from (_and he found himself wishing he hadn't woken up in the tub after what he had done, but had been found several days later, his body emptied of all its blood and his skin turning colour from Death residing in him_).

While sure, he felt like he had before his pills had been stolen - this tiny semblance of normalcy having been restored - his thoughts for some reason weren't clearing up. All he could think of was what he had done, and what McKnight had said to him at the restaurant.

"_I think you need someone in your life._"

Really now.

And so he went about his business as per usual.

Day to day living felt forced, like he was simply sitting on a merry-go-round turning in slow motion. Same shit, different day, as the saying went

The cuts on his arms healed and left fresh, shiny scars, mingling amongst the faded ones. He regularly fought the growing urge to add more and turn his flesh into a masterpiece worthy of Edgar Allen Poe. Maybe he could even pull a Sylvia Plath - suicide plan number 16, from quite a while back (that week, however, had seen some progress, getting him to Option 198. Maybe he should consider writing a book, because he had so many options now that it could be a best seller).

He did the usual when it came to work: he stocked the shelves, he helped people that couldn't find what they needed, he did the dishes, and he cleaned the bakery. And as hard as he tried to ignore Mr. Jones every time he approached he would find himself fearing for his job, which ultimately meant his life, and he would break down and help the lazy bastard who he wanted to, in reality, take a metal shovel to.

He didn't need that (_pretty_) face of his, anyway.

And he slipped back into his lax eating and sleeping habits with ease, eating one meal a day (sometimes that was pushing it) and sleeping three and a half hours a night (again, pushing it); but the three or so hours was his fault: he was trying to get back into painting, sitting down for an hour at a canvas when he got home from the diner. It wasn't working out in his favour, but the art he was producing was unusually good, even for him. Inspiration was strong. As for the eating, well, he was just aggressively passive about food and its nutritional values and taking the time to actually sit down and eat it.

But, that wasn't the only thing, either. He had new pills. Pills for insomnia. Pills McKnight didn't know about. They were important, though. So he could sleep again because, lately, he was starting to have nightmares. The same ones he had for a month after his mother died. Ones that left him sweating, tangled and strangled by the sheets, voice raw from screaming and face soaked with tears. He did not know where these night terrors had come from in the first place, but he just wanted them to _go the fuck away already. _

Honestly they were only making things worse. The pills, not just the dreams, mind you now. Though the dreams were going to start taking their toll on him soon enough; they always did. It was just how they were supposed to work or some stupid thing like that. Matthew really didn't know. Or, maybe he just didn't care. Kind of hard to tell the difference between the two: knowing and caring, caring and knowing.

Anyway, back to the pills. Pills for insomnia (his mother would have joked that a frying pan to the head would have done just as good for him, and now he was wondering if trying that would be pushing his luck). They generally required the taker to have at least time for eight hours of uninterrupted sleep for them to work properly, and well, with his only procuring no more than four hours of sleep a night…

Gilbert and Mathias, another friend whom had recently started working there, had every reason and right when they said that Matthew looked like the ultimate human train-wreck.

Said human train wreck was currently out in the 'magical warehouse of overstock', hoisting up plastic packages of two litre bottles, eight bottles bound in the thick wrap, lugging them across the stock area to load into a cart. The muscles in his arms were burning, his shoulders were throbbing and goddamn it was it _ever_ freezing back there with the doors to the loading docks wide open as a truck came in with a fresh shipment of produce. Snow was actually starting to drift in and pile up in sections of the floor.

He gave a harsh cough, the world around him teetering on its axis as he struggled with both staying awake and loading the stack of two packages of drinks onto the cart, feeling his elbows lock in place and something in his back twinge painfully.

And of course his co-workers, the ones that were supposed to be doing the heavy lifting, were just standing around the open door, smoking their cigarettes and watching Matthew lugging the drinks from one side of the warehouse to the other, snickering amongst themselves.

Oh, yeah, watch the kid with a body weight of 147lbs lift something that could easily snap him in two and laugh about it. Go on, laugh your spleen out. Get baked, eat some crackers and laugh your fucking insides out.

Just don't ask him to clean up the mess, for the love of all things holy.

**Comforting thought for the day:  
**They would be the ones to get hit by a transport truck while they crossed the road in Harlem after  
getting distracted by some sexy prostitute on the other side of the street. Not him. _Them. _

The thought made him feel a little bit better about his current position and a smirk surfaced on his face. He slammed the weighty packages down onto the cart. All he needed was to just get away from there. As far as possible.

(_From where? _a little voice asked him softly. _Where do you want to run, Matthew? Run home? Run back to mommy? I'm sure she would _love_ to have you with her_.)

Slapping himself wouldn't be a wise decision, although he contemplated it, wanting nothing more than to get that cold, dead-sounding voice out of his head (t_he voice sounded just like his mothers_). He wandered to the other side of the warehouse, burying his mouth in the crook of his arm as he gave another chest-rattling cough that left his head spinning once more, leaving the carts there for the grocery manager to price and have someone stock on the shelves later. More than likely, that 'someone' would be him.

He grumbled, shivered and coughed. This was shit.

Pushing the door to the small office open, he slipped inside, sighing with relief when he saw that it had been vacated. No useless chit-chat. Perfect. The last thing he wanted was to talk with anyone. Now, for the easy part of it all: filing the report for the manager and filling out the stock report, for the man to go over later while pricing everything and ordering in new stock.

Flopping down in one of the cushiony office chairs, he held his head in his hand, elbow propped on the desk, eyes fluttering shut as the world around him tipped once more. Sleep. He _really_ needed it. It was probably the pills, though; chances were they were reacting with his pills after all and he just couldn't tell the difference to save his life. And maybe he needed a check-up at the doctor's office too, but that he probably wouldn't be able to afford. Or maybe he would be able to - either way, he really had no idea how American walk-in clinics worked, if they were anything like the ones back at home. He had had pneumonia before and he really didn't want it again.

Once the world stopped spinning he leant back in the chair, reaching across the desk for a folder, flicking through its contents before settling on a sheet with a table, filled with product numbers and signatures. He cursed vehemently beneath his breath as he hauled a pen out of the pocket of his sweater. Quickly, he scrawled down the time and date before he filled out the required logs in the binder, shoving them back into place on the shelf in his manager's office.

He coughed so hard it felt like his stomach was going to tear (why not his lungs? Oh, no, he could feel it all the way down to his Goddamn _stomach _now, for the love of Christ) in half, and for a moment he felt as though he were coming close to passing out - even though it was quiet in the office, his ears were filled with white noise; his vision blacked out in places. More curses flew past his lips in a slight slur as he left the small office, steps tense, hands clenched into fists.

_Entering Passive-Aggressive Phase Four and a Half:  
_**Recommended Course of Action:  
**Don't even look at him. Just … _don't. _It won't be pretty.

Leaving the Magical Warehouse of Overstock, massaging the bridge of his nose, he bumped smack into a customer, apologized several times without even looking and kept walking. That was if you could call what he was doing now 'walking', or at least properly; His steps were staggering, and he swayed slightly as he went, going from one side and then tipping dangerously to the other. A human metronome. It was as if he had been drinking heavily with how his cheeks were flushed; his eyes glassy and bloodshot. He trembled steadily and God, what he would _not _give to get hit by a train.

This was just unusually cruel, even by his standards, which were low enough.

His steps faltered and had to stop and lean against a cooler, massaging his temples slowly. Black dots were dancing in his line of vision, trying to seduce him with the tantalizing thoughts of dropping out cold. Those pills were killing him.

It was either them, or the lack of sleep, or his head cold, or his cough. Maybe it was all of it combined into one beautiful example of organized chaos.

The man didn't know where he found the energy to walk down the aisle, but he did all the same. His mouth tasted like cotton; his ears were nothing but white noise.

Would his boss object if he just went out back and curled up behind the cardboard compactor and slept until the end of his shift? There was a chance he would, but Matt was barely even noticed half of the time he was there, so maybe it wouldn't make a difference whether or not he did.

Removing a box cutter, Matthew eyed the blade as he flicked it open and shut several times before stopping, sighing, and digging into the cardboard boxes filled with juice containers. They had been left behind when he had to go out back and fill in for Gilbert, given the other had been sent on his lunch break. Boxes open, knife back in his pocket, he shoved bottles onto the shelf just above his head, standing on his tip toes in order to shove them all the way to the back.

Wash, rinse, repeat. Monotonous as hell.

After an hour of steady stocking, with the hour of lugging drinks on top of that, Matthew's arms felt like they were going to fall off. And the exhaustion was returning, which was a major killer.

Seriously, it was sorely tempting to go out and sleep somewhere where he would not be found by the others. Hell, he could even tell Gilbert to find him and wake him up once his shift was over, and he knew that the man would do it. They were 'partners in crime', after all, as he had put it. They was in cahoots, eh? Or some nonsense like that. Matthew didn't really care to remember what it was. All he knew was that he had used some crazy Italian mobster talk to describe their relationship.

Massaging his biceps with his fingertips, he set the crate back down onto the trolley as he dug his fingers into the muscle. When pain flared up, he pressed no harder and kept his fingers stationary, sighing. Pain ran along his back, muscles strained and tense. Letting go of his arms, he twisted from side-to-side, spine rippling and crackling loudly as he turned. Despite how amazing that felt, it _hurt _and sounded unhealthy_._

And it would seem that the customers stood beside him thought the same thing, considering how they looked at him with slight alarm and took a subtle step away (wasn't all that subtle if he noticed it).

Slicing open another box, he pulled the contents out of the crate, sliding the bottles onto the metal shelving. Black dots continued to dance in and out of his vision, and they were beginning to get a lot worse - it felt like he was falling asleep standing, and he felt cold all over, right down to the roots of his hair. His head felt like it was made of concrete; feeling impossible to hold upright and icy. Turning slowly once the box was empty, he hauled the cutter back out and, as he prepared to open another, someone 'ahemed' from behind him.

Jumping, he turned around and scowled, immediately feeling his face flush as he stood there, knife turned blade-side up and gripped rather menacingly, finding himself face-to-face, once again, with Alfred Jones. Mr. Jones looked at ill-ease for a brief moment, eyes lingering on the box cutter.

Realizing what he was doing, he considered keeping the lawyer at knife point for a brief moment and then once he decided that it had the potential to get him in shit, he pocketed it with a hollow apology, still glaring.

_This is not my day this is not my day this is not my day __**why is this not my fucking day**__?_

"Might I _help you,_ Mr. _Jones_?" he snarled.

"For one, do me a favour and stop being so formal with me all the time," Alfred chuckled with what most people would call a charming, winning smile on his fairly handsome face. Matthew, on the other hand, thought it made him look like a condescending ass. "It's just 'Alfred', alright?"

"Alright, 'Just Alfred'," Matthew growled in return, turning back to the boxes and slicing them open with a renewed viciousness. He watched from the corner of his eyes as Alfred walked around to the other side of the cart, sporting a worried look. "And how might I help you, '_Just Alfred'_?"

"Cute _and _snarky," he heard Alfred say beneath his breath. "I like that. That's something I can deal with and learn to love." From how lowly he said it, the words were not meant for him to hear.

Too bad; he did.

Matthew stabbed the cardboard, creating another opening in the flap where there should not have been one, willing himself to refrain from cracking a glass apple juice container down over his skull. _Why did this man drive him to such violent lengths_?

"A'ight, what I was wondering isn't entirely work-related." Was it just him, or was the lawyer a little red in the cheeks? And he did seem to be getting a little nervous: he shifted frequently, hands clenched behind his back, eyes flickering away from his face and back. This captured his fading attention, gave him something to focus on. Alfred visibly swallowed. "I, uh, y'see…"

About to tell the man to spit it out the Canadian paused, covering his mouth as he erupted into another fit of coughing. Alfred stopped mid-sentence, watching him with a look on his face that was slowly turning into concern. Tears formed in Matthew's eyes, mixing with the black dots, and he felt his knees weaken. He managed to stop for a moment, take a shuddering breath, before starting all over again. The crook of his elbow was smothering his mouth, pressed tightly and covering his lips as he doubled over, hand pressed flat against his torso. A hand pressed against his back and he went rigid, choking now in place of coughing.

"H-Hey, you okay?"

Immediately he slapped the hand away, side-stepping and quickly averting his eyes from the look of hurt in them. Something panged in his chest upon seeing it and his resolve weakened.

Still coughing. Lungs tingling, he felt ready to drop down out cold. And as his legs gave out, he found his free hand shooting out to grab at something - _anything_ - to keep from collapsing.

The 'something' he grabbed happened to be Alfred's arm, much to his horror and humiliation. A hand, warm and firm, hooked onto his elbow, and he found the lawyer supporting him, moving his free hand to his rest on his side. Matthew was begrudging in his thankfulness. He did his best not to lean into the other but failed miserably, resting his front awkwardly against the older man's side. Heat, and not just from coughing so hard, crept into his cheeks.

Finally, the coughing slowed, dissipating into harsh, occasional hacking noises. Tears poured down Matthew's white cheeks. He could barely stand and he knew that, if it weren't for the arms and body simultaneously supporting him he would probably be a crumpled heap on the floor. Pushing away weakly, he inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering. Lungs felt like they had been punctured by a push pin, and by the way he wheezed, it sounded like it. His body went rigid as his entire vision was consumed by an inky blackness.

"Matthew? Are y-you okay? Matthew? _Matt_?"

Why did Alfred sound so far away all of a sudden? And why was there a radio in his head, blaring white noise in his ears? They were ringing so loudly. Someone needed to turn off the radio. Seriously. He was getting frustrated and failed to realize that it was all the blood in his head rushing out of it.

He coughed again, another rattling sound that resonated deeply in his chest. Alfred spoke again (did he _never_ shut up?), but this time he couldn't even hear him. It was just muffled white noise. He blinked, but still couldn't see anything, so he simply groped forward, grasping onto the material of his shirt, hand coming into contact with a broad chest. He pulled himself close, not caring that it was _Him._ His breath landed on his cheek, and it smelt of cigarettes, mints and candy. Disgusting yet sweet.

Around his thin hand, a large, warmer one tightly wrapped itself, their fingers lacing together firmly. He noted in an off-hand way that they fitted together nicely, and that he liked the feel of their palms pressed together. His other hand settled upon his side, resting firmly on his ribcage, keeping him close. Alfred's grip was reassuring; a promise that he wouldn't let go.

His eyes fell shut and he slumped, knees buckling one last time, head coming in contact with the other's shoulder.

He didn't even remember hitting the floor.

(_But maybe that was because there was actually someone there to catch him this time when he finally fell._)

* * *

Alfred had his hands tucked into the back pockets of his pants as he wandered around the supermarket. He chewed his lip anxiously, stopping only when the metallic taste of blood started filling his mouth. With a grimace, he swallowed it back. Nasty shit. If minor nervousness was beginning to get to him, he had no idea how someone with actual anxiety problems would be able to handle it.

Today's mission, although simple in nature, was the most difficult one he would ever have to perform in his entire life. He had been juggling back and forth potential dialogue in his head - all idealistic to what he wanted to hear, but he knew that would never happen. Despite looking so sweet, so timid, so docile, the boy was anything but that. He was a little viper, sharp and unforgiving and Alfred knew that if he fucked up, there would be no second. Matthew didn't seem to be the type to give second chances, and he really didn't want to find out.

In short, Alfred F. Jones was trying to muster up the courage to ask Matthew Williams to hang out with him and have a few drinks.

And he could barely get the first few words off of his tongue, let alone formulate the sentence that would use to ask the younger man.

He ran a hand through his hair. This was the epitome of pathetic. _He _was becoming the epitome of pathetic. He, a District Attorney and New York's self-named Most Amazing Bachelor and Best Lay of the Year, was terrified to ask a young man out for a casual, harmless drink in the hopes of getting to know him better. Maybe even become friends with him. Friends would be a good way to start, right? Then they could take it from there, see where things went. If they went anywhere, really. He found himself praying for it. He swallowed. Hard.

He felt like a fucking school-boy with a hard-on for the third grade music teacher.

So hopeless. He was crushing on a cute kid that worked at a supermarket when he could have the pick of any woman this side of the South Pole, people that had obvious amounts of money and would be more than willing to get with him. He just had to fall for the one that would not give him the time of day. And was a guy. He wasn't at all used to rejection, and that was the one thing he was suddenly petrified of.

And it was ridiculous, too.

With his head in the clouds and his thoughts spiralling every which way, Alfred didn't even notice that he had walked four laps around the supermarket, that he still hadn't gotten a basket or gone to pick up the loaf of bread he needed or another bag of cat food, or that he had been chewing on his lip so hard that there was now a little path of blood dribbling down his chin. Turning down the dairy isle, he glanced about and sighed heavily, smearing it away with the back of his hand, and then he froze in his tracks.

He had found Matthew.

Oh _fuck, _he had found Matthew.

And was he ready to find him? No, not really. Not at all, actually. He swallowed the nervous laughter that bubbled up in his throat upon setting his sights on him, not wanting to sound as imbecilic as he felt at the current moment. Curses were going at a rapid pace in his head. He was going to make such a fool of himself.

The younger man was stocking the top shelf, and as he stretched upwards, the hem of his shirt rode up as well, giving him a lovely view of a pale, flat abdomen before it disappeared back beneath the shapeless shirt he had to wear. The process was repeated again and, as he reached to push the bottles back further, the shirt rode up further and this time he ended up getting quite the view of two, well-defined hip bones at the same time. His cheeks flushed and his mouth went dry. Oh, God, his head just combusted, and all from seeing that tiny patch of skin and his narrow, slim, hips. Immediately, all he could wonder about was what those hips would feel like under his hands and-

If possible, his cheeks got even redder and he positively _squirmed_.

Deciding it was high time to grow a pair, he braced himself and approached Matthew and when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. The other had yet to notice his presence, and Alfred noted in an off-hand manner how white his face was, right down to his lips. They were like sheets of paper. He frowned, and cleared his throat, sniffing.

He watched as the other jolted slightly, panicking because he was _not _ready yet for the attention he still desperately wanted, turning around to face the lawyer. Instantly he froze upon seeing the icy look in the eyes now locked on him, and the box cutter grasped tightly in a small fist. Oh, well now, this was uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. It seemed that Matthew noticed this, too, because he lowered the knife and put it away, shifting slightly before speaking:

"Might I _help you_, Mr. _Jones_?" Did his eye just twitch? Oh. Wow. Way to catch him on a bad day, Jones. Way to go.

Trying his best to lighten the mood, he laughed softly, smiling gently. "For one, do me a favour and stop being so formal with me all the time," he joked pleasantly. "It's just 'Alfred', alright?"

This did not elicit the reaction he wanted; Matthew continued to glower at him as if trying to will him into death with simply his gaze. "Alright, 'Just Alfred'," he growled out at him, turning around before receiving a reply and resuming what he had been doing. But the harshness of his motions, how jerky and forceful they were as he ripped the tops off the boxes, did not go unnoticed by the American. It was kind of alarming and, not wanting to talk with his back turned to him, he walked around the trolley, peering at him. "And how might I help you, '_Just Alfred'_?" he inquired in a voice that was a little too sweet.

At this, Alfred couldn't help but chuckle and hum with approval. That was one of the things he loved about him - he was just such a saucy little bitch at times that it was astounding. "Ah, cute _and _snarky," he murmured to himself, eyeing the young man with a coy smile. "I like that. That's something I can deal with and learn to love."

Suddenly, Matthew more or less ripped the cover of the box in two, no longer looking at the man speaking about him but straight ahead with a blank look upon his face. Suddenly, his safety felt very compromised. Deciding to overlook this, Alfred took a deep, shuddery breath and braced himself for what would be immediate rejection.

"A'ight, what I was wondering isn't entirely work-related," he started, faltering slightly as he felt his face starting to burn. This was even worse than he thought it was going to be. And now Matthew was staring at him, too. He swallowed the lump in his throat. Fuck fuck fuck. "I, uh, y'see … well…"

A sudden fit of coughing from the Canadian captured his attention and he immediately stopped talking, not wanting to try and be heard over the hacking noises. For one, that meant everyone nearby would hear him trying to stutter out 'go out with me for some drinks?' But that along with the fact that Matthew was now doubled over, practically retching from coughing so hard, he was starting to worry a little. He placed a hand on his back.

"Hey, are you okay?" he inquired tentatively, trying to ignore how he tensed beneath his touch. When his hand was shoved away, and two steps to the side taken, Alfred's face fell.

All he wanted to do was help him. '_Why can't you see that_?' Alfred wanted to scream at him, feeling the words bubbling up in his throat but remaining at an impasse with his vocal chords. Eyes turned to the floor and swallowed again, sniffing, and ran a hand through his hair.

The next thing he knew, Matthew's hand shot out and grabbed onto his elbow, clenching into the material of his jacket with a strength that was surprising for someone that looked so frail. Grasping onto his elbow, he held tightly onto the young man as he settled his free hand down on his side, right below his ribcage. He swallowed. God was he ever tiny. Matthew was virtually humiliated by resorting to leaning against him for support. He said nothing despite the fact that he could feel warmth rising in his cheeks at just how _close_ their proximity was. It would have felt nice, but given the situation, it didn't leave him with the feeling it would have otherwise.

Soon the coughing all but ceased and Matthew pushed away, his skin deathly white and wheezing. Tears rolled steadily down his face. But, as he tensed, it seemed he was unaware of his surroundings, by the way he stared with glassy eyes and blinked rapidly as if he were trying to stay awake. He swayed.

Even though his mouth had gone dry, he spoke: "Matthew? Are y-you okay?" He got no response, the boy still rigid. He fretted internally. "Matthew? _Matt_?"

When the boy started coughing again, Alfred felt the beginning roots of panic settling in. Something was wrong, and that was all his brain could process. "C'mon, Matt, we need to get you something to drink so you don't choke, right?" he offered, hoping he could hear him, would acknowledge him. No such luck.

Once he stopped coughing, the Canadian did something that startled him: he reached out, as if blind despite his eyes being partially open, and grabbed the material of his shirt, tugging himself close. A cold, damp forehead came to rest against his temple, and Alfred felt as though his face was going to combust from the heat it was emitting as he moved to secure his grip by twining their fingers together and once more sliding an arm around him to support him. By this time, he barely noticed the fact that a crowd had gathered and another employee, the same boy he had seen a few weeks ago at the library, with the shock of platinum blonde hair (just less the canary now) was jogging towards them, a worried look on his face.

And then suddenly Matthew went limp in his grasp, dull indigo eyes rolling up in the back of his skull as he dropped, head colliding with Alfred's shoulder. The lawyer panicked and tightened his grasp, keeping the other from hitting the floor.

Despite how he was supporting no more than dead weight, there still wasn't much to him but he stooped down all the same, bringing the unconscious employee down to the floor and sitting there, placing the lolling head of curly blonde hair in his lap.

The platinum-haired man was next to him now, having elbowed his way through the several customers watching the scene. "What happened?" he barked harshly, glaring at Alfred as though he had done something.

A glance to his nametag, and Alfred noted that his name Gilbert. "I was asking him something, and he just started coughing real bad all of a sudden," he said, voice shaking slightly. "I-I don't know what just happened. He grabbed onto me, got weak and then he just passed out cold."

Gilbert cursed fluently beneath his breath, pressing the front of his hand to the youth's forehead. "He's not burning up," he muttered, voice low. He scanned the young man and shook his head, leaning back on his haunches and now staring at the American. "He's been sick lately. I don't know what it is, but he's been pretty damn sick…" The two men lapsed into silence, and Alfred had started to absently finger-comb his hair, eyes glassy as he watched his lax face, hoping to see some signs of him waking up.

"Hey, how do you know him, anyway?"

His head jerked upwards at the question and his hand stilled. "I don't," Alfred murmured. "I would like to, though. Why do you ask?"

"Just wonderin'," came the response. Then, Gilbert stood upright, dusting off his pants. "Do me a favour and stay here, would ya? I'm going to go get the manager."

"Shouldn't you call an ambulance for him first?" Alfred protested. He frowned deeply when Gilbert shook his head 'no'. "Well, why not?"

The man that was damn well near being an albino approached and crouched down beside him, bringing his lips close to his ear. "Keep this between you and me, and so help me God don't let him know that you know," he murmured in a low voice, refusing to speak until he was given a head-nod of agreement. "Matthew can't even afford to pay half his fuckin' bills, let alone the added expenses of an ambulance ride and a prolonged hospital stay. He'd murder us with his bare hands if we called in one just for him."

"I could pay for it though, an-"

Gilbert gave a harsh sounding laugh, eyes flat. "And he'd _really_ murder you then, considering he hates charity."

Alfred made a noise of protest but he was ignored by the man that was now jogging down the aisle before breaking out into a full-out run as he rounded onto the front end. And so the American resumed stroking his hair absently, his legs going numb from the way he was sitting, but he didn't dare move.

He jolted slightly, jostling the unconscious man in his lap - although he remained unaware of the motion - when he felt a small finger tap his shoulder. A little girl stood there with a pout on her face, two long black braids framing either side. "Is he gunna be a'right, Mister?" she demanded, holding onto the edge of her mother's skirt with a deeply tanned hand. The mother she held onto peered down with a look of worry on her own tanned face, watching the unconscious stock boy with concern.

"I hope so," Alfred said cheerfully. "I think he will be."

The little girl nodded sagely. "Tha's good," she said firmly. "At least you was there to catch him, right?"

All the American could do was nod, trying to register her words in his head as he turned his gaze back onto the head in his lap. The mother and daughter kept walking, the little girl turning back occasionally to watch the two men. There was a small smile on her lips, as if she knew something important that he didn't. He wanted to know what it was that she knew over him. But he just kept on running his fingers through the soft, curly locks of hair.

Gilbert returned some five minutes later with the manager at his heels, the older man wearing a look of deep concern. He appeared to be in his late thirties, early forties. "Mr. Jones," he greeted pleasantly. "What's after happening?" The tall brunette crouched down beside them, going down on one knee as he took the slack face in between his broad hands. Alfred noted with dull amusement that the man had a cow's lick similar to that of his own.

"Like I explained to him, I was asking him something when he just started coughing right out of the blue," he said quietly to the man. "Then he got weak and he passed out."

The manager, whose nametag read 'Roderich', frowned thoughtfully. "I hope something like this isn't too much trouble to ask, but, well, do you think you would be able to take him home while I call ahead to his other job to let them know he won't be in?"

"God, it's no trouble at all," Alfred replied brightly, a smile stretching across his face. "Just give me his address, and I'll bring him home and stay there until he wakes up."

"Also tell him that he can take tomorrow off, as well," Roderich continued, standing, brushing off the dust from his slacks. "Tell him it'll be a paid sick leave, so he needn't worry."

Alfred nodded and moved to stand, cautiously cradling the inert Canadian against his chest, holding him like a child that had simply fallen asleep. Skinny legs dangled at his hips and his head lolled on his shoulder. He could feel the other's heart beating rapidly against his own chest, a steady _thump-bump-thump _rhythm that was a little too fast for his liking. Or maybe that was his own beating like a drum.

Roderich turned sharply to Gilbert, glaring at the smaller American. "As for _you,_ you little delinquent," he snapped, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, "I want you to finish what Matthew was working on before going back to what you were _supposed _to be doing, go it?"

Gilbert mock saluted his boss, smirking. "Right-y O, _Specs,_" he snickered, turning to the boxes before him.

Going red in the face, the manager spluttered. "Ex_cuse _me?" he demanded hotly. "But _what _did you just call me?"

"I called you Sir, of course," the blonde purred saucily, smirking darkly as he put glass bottles of apple juice onto the shelves, whistling cheerfully to himself and tapping his feet.

"_Oh you insolent little_- never mind. Just never _mind_," the man said with a sigh, glaring at Alfred when he realized the lawyer was still standing there, smirking as he watched the exchange. "And why are _you _still here?"

Once the attention was placed back on him, Alfred shifted awkwardly, strengthening his grip on the man in his arms. "Well, you still haven't given me his address yet…"

If it was possible, the man's face turned even redder. Massaging the bridge of his nose as he removed from his pocket a pen and piece of paper, he scribbled down an address. His writing was neat and fancy, sort of looping. When he handed it to Alfred, the man had to do a double take, bright blue eyes growing wide with shock. His jaw dropped and he almost lost his grip on Matthew.

"You're _joking_. He lives _there_?"

"Yes, yes."

"… No, seriously man. You're fucking with me, right?"

"No, Mr. Jones, I am not. That is where Matthew lives."

"Well fuck me sideways and call me Bubba."

"… I'm going to pretend I never heard that."

Alfred was just thankful he had insurance on his Mercedes Benz that also included malicious damage underneath each clause.

Finally, after some half an hour of driving deep into the heart of Brooklyn's more impoverished area, Alfred watched the blonde as he remained unconscious on the sofa, a blanket draped over him and a glass of water on the table should he wake up again anytime soon and start coughing, like the way he had in the car.

They had been out of the supermarket for all of ten minutes when Matthew came-to for the first time, lying spread out across the leather backseat of his car. The boy had said nothing, simply coughed, prompting Alfred to the pull over to the side of the road and lean out back to make sure he was okay. His companion had seemed disoriented when he stopped, looking around with a hazy expression, movements sluggish. Their gazes had locked for a brief moment and confusion had made its way into the kid's (_gorgeous, _Alfred had decided) eyes before he let his head press once more against the seat as his eyes slipped shut. After a moment, Alfred had leant back and gently shook his shoulder. There had been no response; he was after passing out again.

He had not woken up since, and he had already been in the man's apartment for an hour now. Alfred shifted anxiously in his seat, running a hand through his hair. There was virtually nothing to occupy himself with other than studying the sparsely furnished space he was currently in, and Alfred was just about driven out of his tree by combined worry and boredom.

For being such a small apartment, and with such little furniture, it was decorated quite nicely. Even though the sofa didn't match, but whatever. The American thought it was kind of quirky in its own right. A deep red love seat, a brown winged-back arm chair and a navy blue with floral patterns sofa. A low table was set just in front of the sofa, the dark wood was drawn and written on and chipped in places. One leg was shorter than the other, and there was a book entitled _History of the Twenty-First Century _supporting it. The table itself was empty save for a small potted plant of what appeared to be African Violets in the center and the glass of water he had put there. Sunlight poured in through the large living room windows that were only partially covered by sheer, pale beige curtains.

Standing up and heading over into the adjacent kitchen, Alfred slipped his hands into his back pockets as he started nosing around. The kitchen table was a mess of papers and stacks of novels and art equipment, looking as though it were barely used for its actual purpose by the inhabitant. He figured it probably wasn't, considering there were two stools at the counter, where the space was considerably cleaner. A plate, fork and glass were stacked neatly in the sink. Eyes turned away from it, he made a humming sound, and turned his gaze to the refrigerator. It, too, was covered in papers, which when he looked closer, he realized were recent bills, local course offerings and-

He paused, eyebrows furrowing as his hand pushed some papers out of the way, one sheet in particular catching his eye. It was wrinkled and old-looking, but it must have had some importance for it to have been kept and stationed on the white magnetic surface.

It was a letter and as he read down through it, he realized it was an acceptance letter to a university. He blinked once, twice, and then his eyes went wide when he saw the university emblem up in the top right corner. He had gotten this same letter, or at least a version adjusted to his specifications, when he had been accepted to Harvard at the age of seventeen.

He re-read the letter, disbelieving and simply to make sure he was reading it right. The Canadian lying unconscious on the sofa - he glanced over to check, not wanting to get caught reading his personal things - had been accepted into the Harvard Business School with top honours, and as he glanced down through, he saw that the boy had graduated with an overall GPA of 4.71.

Alfred then could have smacked himself when he saw that it had been dated to four years ago.

Glancing around the 'fridge some more, a frown tugged at his lips when he saw another sheet of paper in the same state of disarray. But this one was for a local university. The New York School of Visual Arts. As he read down through it, he found that Matthew had been accepted into their fine arts program. They commented on the portfolio he had submitted, the calibre of it, and how they could not wait for someone with his talent to join them at their school. It had been signed by the dean himself. Alfred's mouth went dry. So, he had been accepted to both Harvard _and _an arts school, both of which schools were having high expectations for him.

Well, he had one question. What the _fuck _happened?

"What. The fuck. Are you doing _in my __**house**_?"

Alfred gave a yelp, startling so badly that he jerked backwards, tripped over his own feet and he landed hard on the floor, scooting backwards until his back collided with the cupboards. His heart was pounding in his chest; he sniffed, and ran a hand through his hair. Oh shit oh shit oh shit he had been caught. _Fuckity fuckin' fuck._

Sitting upright on the sofa, Matthew sent daggers in his direction, a wrathful expression upon his white face. He was still swaying and, despite the look of utter ire he wore, his eyes were glassy. Not much of a threat, but he was still a little preoccupied for his safety. He said nothing, mouth opening and closing like a particularly stupid guppy.

"I asked you a _question_," he spat. "So I expect an answer: what the _fuck_ are you doing in my house?"

Swallowing his dignity (see: fear for his life), he choked out a pathetically squeaky, '_your boss asked me to bring you home I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't be mad at me_,' before he lapsed back into a heavy (see: humiliated) silence.

The words seemed to be contemplated for a moment, and then Matthew's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Thank you," he snapped. "You can get out now."

Oh, well, wasn't _he _friendly.

At this, Alfred scowled. "I want to make sure your alright before I go anywhere, got it?" he said as he stood up, crossing the room with lengthy strides as he made his way over to the man. He sat there with the blankets wrapped tightly around his body, quivering and glaring, wearing what could almost be considered a pout on his waxy white lips. The American would have told him he looked absolutely adorable, but he quite enjoyed his right to live and breath, and he really enjoyed where his balls were currently situated, thank you very much have a nice day.

Recoiling when a hand was placed against his forehead, Matthew cringed. He did not make a move to push him away, though. Score one point for the New York Yankees.

Sitting down beside him, Alfred sighed. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," came the scathing reply.

Alfred looked away awkwardly, scratching the nape of his neck. "Do you, uh, mind if I ask what caused it?"

A confused yet wary look was spared for him, and the Canadian sighed. "I haven't eaten or slept much over the past week, and my pills aren't agreeing with me," he muttered.

"Pills?"

Matthew shifted uncomfortably, burying his nose down in amongst the blanket Alfred had wrapped around his thin frame. He stared blankly at the floor.

He looked away for a moment as the silence thickened. "S-Sorry," he muttered. "I … I didn't mean to pry like that. You don't have to answer if you don't want to." When he looked at Matthew, something akin to thankfulness flickered in his eyes, and he felt his cheeks warm up as the boy gave him a rare smile before burying his face back into the blankets. Something fluttered in his gut, but then sort of died. He hadn't eaten much? "Hey, did you want me to cook you something to eat?"

A shake of the head.

He frowned. "Why not?"

"Because I don't have anything here that you can cook," came the snappy reply as a cold glare was sent in his direction.

"Hey, don't get so fuckin' bitchy with me just because I asked you a question, you little shit." The words were out before he could even stop them. A shocked look registered on the other's face and Alfred immediately chomped down on his tongue lest he say anything else. But, to his surprise - and his relief - laughter, soft and short, bubbled out of the Canadian and he shook his head, errant curl of his bobbing.

"Nice to see you actually have a backbone there, 'Just Alfred'," came the blanket-muffled retort.

Alfred simply stuck out his tongue.

Leaning back against the sofa, he watched Matthew as he propped his head up in his hands, a soft frown on his face. This young man was such a curious little specimen, and his interest had been piqued, big time. He, in all his life, had never met anyone quite like him before. Saying he was his own person was an understatement. Watching as the lithe youth beside him stared wearily at the wall across from him, eyes unfocused and closing slowly, he gnawed on the inside of his mouth. He really wanted to get to know this guy.

Next thing he knew, Matthew was slumping forward as his eyes fell shut, head drooping down limply against his chest. Shooting forward he grabbed him before he had a chance to hit the coffee table, breathing a sigh of relief as he latched his arms around the man's small frame. Pulling back, he let the once again unconscious Canadian rest against the back of the sofa, head flopping uselessly to the side as he suddenly slumped over and _onto Alfred._ The latter went stiff, eyes widening as he sucked in his breath when he slid down further, head coming to rest in his lap.

Holy. Crap.

Managing to slip out from beneath the Canadian, Alfred swallowed thickly and slid to the floor, kneeling on the cold wood as he straightened the youth out, tucking the blankets in even closer than before. Gently, hesitantly, he ran his fingertips across a pale cheek that had colour slowly returning to it. The skin was so soft, so smooth. He bit his lip and sighed. Indigo eyes fluttered open, tired-looking and bloodshot.

"Why are you helping me like this?" he whispered, eyes falling shut again as he took a ragged breath. They opened again, reflecting confusion. "We don't even know each other."

Alfred shrugged it off, knowing all to well that Matthew was somewhat correct in his logic. But that didn't matter to him. "I'm helping you because I can," he said simply. "And I like you. You're a pretty decent guy, and cute, too." There. He said it. Let's see God smite his ass now, bitch.

Matthew's eyes went wide and his cheeks went pink, quickly diverting them as he buried himself beneath the blankets. He gave a languid blink before returning his gaze to the District Attorney's face. "If you say so," he muttered with a yawn. "But still, people like _you _don't help people like _me._"

"No, you're right," he admitted. "That generally tends to be the case; if we did, though, there'd probably be no homeless in New York for that matter. But you're different. I _want _to help you. Please?" Although he didn't want to come off as sounding desperate, he knew he did. He could tell he did from the way Matthew was looking at him with a brewing annoyance in his tired optics.

A head shake in the negative and a muffled '_I don't want your help_' was his only response. Alfred gripped the material of his jeans in frustration, looking away. How could he make him see it his way? How? From his peripheral vision he saw that he was trying to sit up, and a frown immediately formed on his face. "No, lie back down," Alfred instructed. "Get some sleep for yourself, alright? And, you don't have to go into work tonight or tomorrow; your boss said you'll be taking sick leave for the day with pay."

At this, the man nodded, eyes falling shut. He licked his lips before nestling in amongst the blankets to get some actual sleep this time around instead of just passing out.

And so Alfred waited, sitting there for ten minutes cross-legged and alternating between studying the paintings on the wall, the partially done canvas depicting two soldiers holding the hands of a little girl - presumably American or Canadian Armed Forces, and what actually appeared to be more like a member of the Taliban, and not a second solider, now that he thought of it - and the slumbering form on the sofa. Only when he started making soft snoring noises did he stand, with a soft groan, and grab his jacket, making his way to the door.

The kid needed food, whether he liked it or not, more than likely he was leaning towards the latter option, as well.

And that was just what Alfred was going to go do. He was going to go and get Matthew something good to eat.

Well, as long as his Benz still had its tires intact.

When Matthew woke up a few hours later from his nap, it was to the smell of food. He felt refreshed, alert and little black dots no longer danced in his line of sight. Instead, what was in his line of sight now was that goddamn American seated on the floor, on the other side of the coffee table, setting down two plates of what appeared to be some kind of Chinese stir-fry. The moment the smell hit him, his mouth immediately watered. Okay, he had no problem with the lawyer being in his living room; he had brought food with him.

"Hey, you're awake. Good to see."

He turned to Alfred, only to see a soft smile on his face. A scowl formed on Matthew's lips and he glared, looking away when he saw the smile on the other's face fade slowly, baby blue optics going dull. He shut his eyes and curled in further upon himself on the sofa, slight guilt nagging at the back of his mind. He heard a sigh, and then Alfred spoke up again, "Well, you said you were hungry earlier, so I got you something to eat if you would like it."

Confused, Matthew brought himself up into a sitting position, glancing towards the window. The sky was pitch-black, and suddenly he panicked. "What? I-I'm supposed to be a-at _work _right now!" he trilled, trying to stand. A hand on his shoulder forced him to sit back down.

"You don't remember waking up earlier?"

"Wh-_what_?" he asked weakly, running a hand through his hair and gazing around his softly lit living room, taking in everything as though seeing it for the first time.

"Yeah, you woke up 'round three o'clock," Alfred said as he busied himself with pouring up some water. He made a gesture for Matthew to hurry up and join him. "Your boss told you to take the rest of the day off, and he called ahead to let your other boss know that you won't be in. And you'll be taking tomorrow off with sick pay, so you can chill."

Glaring slightly, he slipped down from his perch on the sofa and to the floor, the blanket remaining wrapped tightly around his thin, sloping shoulders. "Okay." Looking away from the man across from him who had started eating, he studied the plate before him. Plain white rice, strips of meat, finely cut carrots, broccoli and Portobello mushrooms, smothered in a reddish sauce. It smelled like heaven on a plate. Not to mention it tasted like heaven, too, he decided as he placed some in his mouth, eyes fluttering shut as he chewed slowly. A smile curved his lips upwards.

"Is it cooked enough?" a quiet voice from the other side of the coffee table asked hesitantly. He re-opened his eyes to see Alfred watching him apprehensively.

Nodding, Matthew chose to say nothing, allowing the small smile on his face to speak for itself. It was good - really good, actually - but he didn't want to actually say it to him. He blamed it on not wanting to stroke an ego that was already enormous.

Alfred seemed to catch this and he brightened considerably, looking out the window as he ate in small bites.

They talked quietly, about anything and everything really, not lingering too long in silence. It felt too awkward otherwise. This, he could tell, was something Alfred seemed to be afraid of. He gave an internal smirk. A man as self-assured as Alfred Jones, afraid of an awkward silence with a guy like him? A bottom-dwelling nobody? He couldn't even fathom it but that was what it seemed to be.

He was surprised though, by how pleasant and optimistic the lawyer was, how he laughed and smiled the entire time, eyes bright. It made a smile touch Matthew's lips from time to time. Only once did he excuse himself from the table, and that was to go and take one of his pills with a small glass of water.

Upon returning to the table, he found Alfred was frowning, staring off to the side at the floor. "What's up?" Matthew asked quietly, peering at him over the rims of his glasses as he finished up the slice of cheese cake that had been brought in as well. It was chocolate _and _strawberry and Matt thought he had died and gone directly to heaven.

"I, ah, I'm sorry about earlier," he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. Matthew made a slight noise of confusion, causing the other to look up at him. "Uh, when you woke up. I guess you d-don't remember, so this is probably pointless, but, uh… yeah."

"Feel free to explain if you wish," Matthew murmured, setting down his fork as he wiped his mouth with his serviette. "I don't mind."

Alfred inhaled deeply, chewing on his lips before nodding. "Yeah, uh, a'ight. When you woke up, I asked what had made you so sick, and you said your pills. I asked what you meant by that, but then you looked really uncomfortable. I just wanted to apologize for that."

Slightly surprised, albeit pleasantly, Matthew shook his head. "It's okay," he said gently. "I forgive you for your curiosity; to err is human, after all."

"And to forgive is divine," Alfred murmured after a brief pause, nodding slightly.

Well now, that was impressive. "You know Pope?" the Canadian inquired, startled.

Eyes turned in his direction. "Do _you_ know Pope?"

And Matthew smiled, his face lighting up and a small laugh escaping him. Maybe, just maybe, the American wasn't nearly as bad as he thought he was. Arrogant, yes. Stupid, very. But he seemed to be well-read (well, he was a Harvard graduate after all, so that meant he needed to have at least one modicum of intelligence locked away somewhere in that concrete cranium of his), and God, was he ever friendly - and not in the creepy way, not like he had thought beforehand. More of an '_I'm super pathetic and I really need someone in my life to talk to, would you please be that person?_' kind of friendly.

As they talked, he also realized that Alfred was just as alone as he, but in a more emotional sense. Partial to hanging out in large groups, but the only person he could even begin to consider a friend was his brother, and they were at each other's throats more often than not.

Then, the words McKnight said to him rang in his head once more: "_I think you need someone in your life_."

Matthew watched Alfred as he spoke, making animated hand gestures the entire time, and he smiled both thoughtfully and with amusement. Alone. Such a harsh, hideous word that applied to their lives in equal amounts. They were both alone and simply doing their best to kill time, wanting to find someone to fill that ugly void.

Maybe.

Then again, he was always at his most hospitable when he was either full or just after waking up. Given the circumstances, this was probably just him feeling utterly content from both and had nothing to do with the fact that this was the first time in nearly six months he had spoken with someone outside of either work or his doctor's office. And it had nothing to do with the fact that it felt nice to have someone over in his apartment, a place that usually remained empty on most days.

Maybe.

Just _maybe_.

But he wasn't going to cross his fingers. Things like that always ended badly for him. No matter how promising they seemed to be in the beginning, they always crashed and burned in the end.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN.**

When they parted the night before, Alfred had smiled shyly at Matthew and asked hesitantly if they would be able to hang out again sometime soon.

And Matthew, not using any of his brain cells for some odd reason, agreed. Said that yes, they could hang out again sometime when their schedules didn't clash.

So, after he had left, Matthew stayed up no later than ten o'clock that night, watching television and alternating between painting and sketching before he went to bed, where he immediately passed out upon his head meeting the pillow.

It. Felt. _Amazing._

The last thing the Canadian expected when he got up that morning was to find Alfred in his kitchen, blasting Bob Dylan on a portable iPod dock at nine in the morning (he had slept through his alarm, thankfully) and singing along to the music as he cooked something nameless that smelled absolutely delicious at his rarely-used stove.

At first, of course, Matthew did not realize that there was somebody in his kitchen that he knew. All he did know was that someone was playing Bob Dylan and making more noise than what was acceptable on a Wednesday morning at nine am. In his apartment; when he was the only one that lived there, or at least should have been there at that hour in the morning, considering when he went to bed that there was no one else in his apartment. So, armed with the Glock 23 pistol he kept fully-loaded in his bedside table at all times, the (somewhat paranoid) man made his way out into the kitchen, back pressed against the wall and muttering rapidly beneath his breath as he went, trying to calm himself.

_It's nothing, it's nothing. It's just the neighbours next door playing their music and you can hear it through the walls. That's all. Nothing serious, nothing to worry about._

Although it still did not quite explain the fact that there was someone making a ruckus out in the main room of his apartment.

_Just sewer rats. Playing with the pots and pans and knives. Yeah. That sounds about right. Really big fucking rats that crawled up through the toilet in the middle of the night, decided that your toes weren't worth eating and so they've robbed you of the last little bit of food in your fridge so they can have a feed for themselves. That's totally reasonable. Totally._

He rounded the corner, gun held out in front of him and shaking, removed the safety and snarled. "Who the fuck ar-"

Alfred turned around mid-growl, a piece of green pepper in his mouth. Upon seeing the gun pointed in his direction, he went three shades of white and a peculiar hue of gray as he gave a startled yell, the pepper falling from his mouth, vaulting himself over the counter and landing upon the floor on the other side with a crash. A chair crashed to the ground with him, giving a splintering sound.

Matthew, on the other hand, startled by the sudden movement and noise and the fact that it was _Alfred_ he was holding at gun point and not someone in there to attempt raping him, dropped the gun, yelped as it discharged a live round with a crack that nearly shattered his ear drums, and started cursing with such vehemence that it would have made a sailor blush and excuse himself from the bar counter from the sheer humiliation of hearing such a soft-spoken lad out-cuss him like it was nobody's business.

And Bob Dylan just kept on singing.

Did he not realize that this was a very inappropriate time for him to be singing about love? Like, really. Read the mood, Dylan. Read the fucking mood and just shut _up_.

Slowly but surely, Alfred's eyes peeked up over the ledge of the counter, globular with terror and shining. All the Canadian could do was stare at the bullet hole in his counter. Well now, that was unfortunate. And he had painted those cupboard doors just last month, too. Shit. Now he had to replace them altogether before his land lord found out.

"G-Good morning Vietnam?"

Eyes snapped in his direction the moment the words were out of his mouth. Matthew contemplated launching the scalding hot frying pan at Alfred's face. If there was one thing he would love, it would be hearing the ring of cast iron coming in contact with his face and hopefully the pan would be hot enough to make a lovely sizzling sound as it did so. Talk about a symphony. Instead he crossed the space and turned the burner off so the food did not catch fire and in a soft, dangerously friendly and murderously icy voice, he looked at the lawyer that was probably after (metaphorically, hopefully) shitting his pants and smiled, saying, "Yes, yes. Good morning. Why are you in my apartment?" Before Alfred could get an answer in edge-wise, the apartment owner held up a hand to stop him. He was still smiling that same 'I Know What You Did Last Summer' smile - creepy and all-knowing, and more than ready to fuck his shit up so badly his grandmother felt it. "Actually, I want to know _how _you got in first. Then we may progress to the reason 'why'."

"Your door was unlocked," he mumbled, finally standing upright once he was sure the Canadian, now exhibiting the first symptoms of a treacherous, unnerving calm that could only mean bad things were coming his way - an unwavering smile, a pleasant disposition despite very well wanting to tear into the face of the individual in question, small hands clenched into tight fists and shaking - was not going to pick the gun back up and shoot him instead of the cupboard. Though, he still couldn't be sure he wasn't going to. "So, I just … let myself in. Didn't wanna wake you or anythin'."

Smacking his forehead, Matthew cursed. Of course. Of fucking course. The door was fucking unlocked. Un-fucking-locked. Of course! He was asking to get killed in his sleep. Just asking for it. This was his goddamn fault, after all. He turned his gaze back to Alfred. The man remained silent, not looking at the other but staring uncomfortably at the floor as he just kept on chewing his lips. He looked as guilty as a child that had been caught stealing cookies from the jar just before dinnertime. "Well?" he asked in an overtly pleasant voice, making the lawyer jump. "We've established _how_, so now I want to know _why_."

"And I'm here becaaaause, um … Iwantedtocookyoubreakfast."

He blinked once. Twice. _What_?

"C-Come again?"

"Breakfast. I wanted to cook it for you."

"…Get out of my apartment, and take your fuckin' Bob Dylan with you."

Alfred bit his lip even harder, squirmed and looked away. "B-But it's almost done and it's only an omelette!" he protested in a whine, finally feeling brave enough to walk around the counter and stand in front if the other. He wasn't dressed the way he usually was - normally found only in immaculate, pressed clothing by some designer with a name he couldn't pronounce - but in a rather casual manner for once: jeans slung low on his hips, a tight black t-shirt that looked like something James Dean would have favoured, and over that shirt a baggy purple hoodie. Blonde hair was mussed, as though he had simply rolled out of bed, pulled on his clothes and come over to his apartment to cook. He gave a weak, boyish grin to the younger man still in his pyjamas - which consisted of nothing other than a pair of ratty plaid lounge pants - as a lovely tint of red flooded its way into his cheeks. When they locked eyes, the American looked away quickly, visibly swallowing.

The Canadian glared as he felt himself blush as well, knowing very well that he had a pair of blue eyes sweeping over his exposed chest and taking in his alabaster-coloured flesh. Squirming as well, he tucked his arms behind his back as he quickly averted his gaze, scowling. In reality he wanted to cover his chest from the other's hawkish gaze, but he didn't really feel like showing off his Picasso Museum of Scars. Such conflicting desires. It made him want to rip his hairs out one by one.

"Whatever. Just whatever," Matthew mumbled irritably, throwing his hands up and turning away from the American to collect his gun up off the floor and put the safety back on, lest it accidentally went off again. He held onto it tightly, knuckles going white, and made his way back to the bedroom, growling and cursing beneath his breath the entire while. He could tell Alfred was watching his movements with the gun in his hand; he could tell it from the way his body tensed, how the hand he had placed on the counter curled into a fist. And Matthew couldn't help but smirk coldly at this. _Pussy_. As tempting as it was, he wouldn't shoot the bastard; he didn't need a criminal record attached to his life. He was the kind of guy that got raped in jail, whether he dropped the soap in the showers or not. Jailbait was his name, and butt rape was- never mind. Best not to finish that sentence.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Matt called back over his shoulder as he entered his room, slamming and locking the door behind him. "Just don't play with any matches or kerosene. Or scissors, especially not those."

Leaning back against the door, the wood cold on his bare back, he let his head fall backwards with a soft thump as his eyes fluttered shut.

_This was not how he wanted to start the day_.

This was not how he wanted to start _any _day to be completely honest. He was growing to like his solitude; he was growing to like the silence that was attached to it. He had grown accustomed to silent mornings, to quietly getting ready for work, not a noise in his apartment other than the radio playing in the kitchen. Being the sole occupant, it was just the norm for him.

What he was _not_ accustomed to was there being another presence in his apartment upon waking. He was not accustomed to having someone cooking him food (other than Gilbert who on occasion 'accidentally' brought too much food for his lunch and would coyly offer Matthew the rest) without even asking for it - or ever, for that matter - and he most certainly was not used to someone pursuing him to hang out with him. It made him feel awkward, uncomfortable, like his safety was compromised and, honestly, he hated these foreign feelings for how they were just after latching onto his person and refusing to let go. The discomfort and ill-ease pooled in his stomach, making him feel nauseated, weak and numb all over.

All he wanted to be was alone in his shitty little apartment to spend the day painting, working out his bills, and reading. Was that too much to ask for?

_Yes Matthew, yes it is too much to ask for. Now shut up and stop whining about it, you little asshole_.

For once, McKnight was desperately wrong. He didn't _need_ someone in his life - he could tell that now; it was so easy to see it, too. All he had to do was open his eyes up and _look_. Just having someone else around was throwing off his mental and emotional balance, knocking his equilibrium helter-skelter. He just felt so off-kilter, and so painfully claustrophobic because of all of this. The youth grabbed the sides of his head, tugged at his hair gently and massaged his temples with the pads of his thumbs, screwing his eyes shut and moaning softly. He wanted to be alone again.

Actually, scratch that; he _needed _to be alone again.

Another groan escaped him; his thoughts were slowly turning incoherent again, much to his dismay. Focus could wait until later. He then proceeded to launch himself onto his bed, grab his pillow and blanket, shove them both over his mouth and he _screamed _until he was afraid his throat was going to start bleeding.

Breathless, he rubbed his face as his thin chest rose and fell rapidly in an attempt at catching his breath. It was damn near impossible with the way his lungs were burning. After managing to do so, he lay motionless on the bed, curled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest and unwilling to grab the blanket again and pull it over him despite shivering against the cold permeating his room. One cough escaped him and he shut his mouth and breathed deeply through his nose, swallowing repeatedly before it could turn into any more. However, the tickle remained, lurking in his throat. The tickle then turned into a series off full-blown hacks all the same, and by the time he was done coughing, his ribs were tender to the touch, tears were streaming from his eyes and his stomach was in one big knot.

This was _not_ a very good way to start the day.

_- Sore throat _- **check.  
**_- Tender ribs from coughing _- **check.  
**_- Freezing his fucking ass off, as per usual -_ **check.  
**_- A crazy fucking Yankee in his kitchen - _**double check.** ("Bob Dylan counts as a crazy Yankee, so shut up," Matthew said decidedly to the lamp on his bedside as it gave him an accusatory glare.)

Pausing, he realized that he had to add one more point to the list:

_- Talking to the lamp again - _**fucking check.**

A bad way to start the day, indeed.

(The lamp, by the way, is a terrible conversationalist and should never be taken seriously. No matter _how_ convincing its gentle coaxing into getting stoned is, or how logical that coaxing might sound. Fuck a lamp's logic. They don't know shit about logic._ Never _listen to a lamp. Ever.)

Some five minutes later, there was a knock at his bedroom door. It was quick and sharp, and Matthew more or less growled when he heard it, squirming and burying himself even further into the sheets. He had been spending the past little while staring out his balcony door - the only perk to his apartment was the fact that he had a balcony in his bedroom, of all things - and out across the tops of all the nearby buildings, slipping in and out of a state of sleep. As tempting as it was to just go back to sleep for the rest of the day, there were things he needed to get done, and falling asleep was not going to help get them done. A yawn escaped him and he returned to watching the world that lay beyond the bullet-proof Plexiglas.

The sky was gray and heavy, almost bordering on black, a threat of impending weather. As much as he loved snow, snow storms and all that jazz, he didn't want one to happen. At least, not yet; the last thing he wanted was a storm to hit with Alfred hanging around. Hopefully he would be after leaving by the time anything happened (if you could call the weather they got in New York during the winter bad and worthy of closing down the entire metropolis for the day when compared to what they would get back at home in Grand Prairie), thus immobilizing the city and stranding the Yankee bastard in his apartment.

He would _really_ contemplate kicking the bucket then.

"Um, your food is ready if you wanna come out and get it."

At this, Matthew smiled. He couldn't help it; the smile just _happened_. Well, at least he could say that there would be at least one blessing for the day: he wasn't being treated like a woman and being served breakfast in bed, thank the Lord. If Alfred had to come up to the door with the food on a tray or something, he might have freaked out. Or cried. Or maybe he would possibly do both at the same time.

Begrudgingly all the same, he hoisted himself up off of the bed, hauled open his closet and grabbed a thick black sweater off of a hanger and yanked it down over his head, ruffling his already messy hair as he did so. No way was he going back out there in only his sleeping pants; the last thing he wanted was another once-over by the American's gluttonous eyes (_as lovely as they were,_ a traitorous voice in his head sneered). Glasses were knocked off of his face and clattered to the floor, he finger-combed his hair and then bent down to pick them up, setting the old frames back down upon the bridge of his nose. Then he frowned and removed them, quickly cleaning them with the sleeve of his sweater before he set them back down. Smudged glasses were his kryptonite. Or, at least one of his kryptonite's - there were already a few to his name.

Wandering back out into the kitchen as he pulled his hair back into a sloppy bun, rubbing the gooey sleep that had made its way back into his eyes from them, Matthew flopped down at the counter, sitting upon a stool and glaring at the offending food before him. Despite looking and smelling so utterly delectable, that egg was the cause of all this mess. Well, that and his apparent inability to lock the front door. The music had switched from playing Bob Dylan to some band he didn't quite recognize, but it wasn't too upbeat for first thing in the morning, and it wasn't absolutely terrible, so he could live with it. Music was music after all, and even if it was something unbelievably dreadful he still found something in it to love.

Picking up a fork that was set beside the plate, he tentatively prodded at the omelette before turning his gaze to the man leaning against the counter, sipping nonchalantly from a Starbucks' cup, gazing across the room and out through the windows - it appeared he, too, was concentrating on the weather outside. Was he hoping for snow, or praying against it? Then again, he probably wasn't concerned with it at all, and had his thoughts elsewhere altogether. Turning his gaze away from the other, Matthew peered at the egg anxiously as though he were expecting to rear up and attack him. "What's in this?" he demanded sharply, looking up once more at his companion over the rims of his wire frame glasses.

Alfred glanced at him. His cheeks were still tinted slightly pink. Matthew frowned slightly at this; was he always blushing? Or was he just an incredibly healthy person? Did healthy people have red cheeks all the time? Such stupid questions. He had no clue; he couldn't include Gilbert in the category of robust individuals that might blush because, hell, Gilbert was even whiter than he was. Bastard was an albino through and through. "Red and green peppers, ham, pineapple, cheese, diced onions, ground up chives and rosemary, and a tad bit of grated lemongrass for a bit of panache. There's ground black pepper in there, as well," he said cheerfully.

A sound that could have either been approval or discomfort from indigestion came from Matthew and he picked up his knife, cutting a small piece and placing it on his tongue. Once he chewed it and swallowed, he stared at the man next to him. "Can I ask you another question?"

"Shoot." There was a pause. Matthew smirked darkly. Alfred looked positively scared. "Actually, don't. Please don't. But, yes, you may ask a question."

"Why are you cooking me food?"

He was given a shrug as his answer and Matthew sighed in exasperation, wanting to slam his head down onto the counter and just knock himself out for the rest of the day. Fuck having things to do, he wanted blissful unconsciousness. "Have you ever noticed how skinny you are, man?" the American asked in return, studying the younger man seated beside him with a concerned look in his eyes. "I mean, like, that's just not healthy."

Ah, well that was his motivation for coming around was. Something like that was just plain embarrassing. "So you're taking it upon yourself to fatten me up?" he asked in an idle manner as he cut off another bit of the omelette, watching the other as he ate it.

"Well, I don't wanna make you fat or anythin', but you could stand to put on a few pounds, yeah," Alfred said with a shrug, sipping his coffee.

Matthew just stared. "In other words, you're trying to fatten me up."

They remained in a combative silence for a long moment, the thickening atmosphere between them being punctured by some Elvis Presley. "By the way, I got you a hot chocolate from Starbucks," Alfred said suddenly, obviously side-stepping the entire conversation and forcing it to go in a new direction. There was a soft chuckle and Matthew couldn't help but shake his head slightly. _Idiot_. "Cause I didn't know if you liked coffee or tea, and well everyone likes hot chocolate so I figured you wouldn't mind that. It's up in the microwave. Lemme just turn it on to heat it up a-"

"OH GOD, DON'T. PLEASE, NO. _DON'T_."

Matthew mightn't have liked the guy, but really now, he didn't want the poor blundering imbecile to die in a freak accident like what would be bound to happen if they used the microwave oven. An exploding chicken coop might have been a hilarious way to go, but not a detonating microwave. That was just demeaning.

Practically jumping out of his skin, Alfred turned his gaze upon the suddenly frantic Canadian, blinking rapidly, edging away slightly. "What the _fuck_ dude, it's just a _microwave_."

"That _microwave_ has been here since the apartment building was opened," Matthew said in a flat voice, gesturing violently at the offending piece of kitchen appliance in question. "Back in the _sixties_."

Alfred grimaced. "That's just wrong. Why don't you just get a new one?" From the offended look the lawyer wore as he glared at the microwave, it was obvious that he thought something like that was absolutely repulsive. Not that he could be blamed for it though.

Upon moving in, Matthew had been of the same opinion, especially when he had learned that the people that had lived in there before him had stuck a hamster in the microwave, turned it on, and caused the little rodent to explode. And that it wasn't the only little critter that had met their untimely fate at the hands of the Radarange Oven. Even the mere thought of the drink being in there, sharing the space where a hamster had been detonated in an untimely manner, had him wanting to vomit all over the place. But the food in his stomach, making it warm and heavy, was just too good to get rid of no matter how dire the circumstances.

"Part of the policy of living in the place," Matt grumbled as cut off another piece of the omelette. So good, he decided with a dopey smile. Damn, he could really get used to something like this - well, the having someone cook him food part. And it definitely helped that he was a good cook, too. Everything else he could do without. "No smoking. No noise after eleven in the night. No pets. No more than five people living in an apartment, and no more than twenty at a time. Provide your own furniture and you pay fifteen percent of the price of heating oil. As well, you're not allowed to replace any of the appliances until they actually break. As you can probably tell, it hasn't broken yet so I can't do _shit_. And it has to be a _technical _malfunction, not picking it up and launching it off the rooftop and down onto the street because, believe you me; I would have already done it five times over to every thing in this damn kitchen."

"That's unfortunate," Alfred commented grimly, going over to the microwave and removing the cup, frowning as he peered into the interior. He pointed. "Hey … what's that stain in the back?"

"It's only fossilized hamster guts," Matthew said in a nonchalant voice as he finished off his omelette, licking the remnants of pepper off of the fork as he set it down onto the plate. My, what a lovely meal. He'd have to get the exact recipe for it. "Nothing to worry about. Just don't … _touch_ it."

A groan of disgust escaped Alfred and he slammed the door shut so hard the microwave rattled on its perch above the stove. "You're shitting me. You are fucking _shitting_ me, man."

Loose tendrils of blonde curly hair swayed, the small bun that remained intact bobbing as he shook his head. "The people that lived in here before me were into science and shit, so they liked exploding little animals in the microwave," he said as he stood, running the cold water for a few minutes so it went clear, blocking Alfred's line of view of the sink, before he rinsed the plate off. He stacked it in the sink with the frying pan. "I found some, ah, interesting things when I first moved in here. I don't understand people like that. Are all you Americans crazy or something?" Shit. He was babbling. Glancing around, he hauled open a cupboard, took down one of his pill bottles and popped the cap on it. He shook a Valium out into his palm and downed it with the glass of orange juice he had yet to touch, chasing it down with a Zoloft. There, now his breakfast was finished. He scowled.

"Well, we're not _all_ crazy," he said in an off-hand manner, watching Matt take his pills with a sidelong stare of curiosity, "although I have seen and jailed some of the craziest bastards New York has to offer."

"I keep forgetting you're a lawyer," Matthew muttered, taking the cup of cooled hot chocolate with a small nod as he sat down on the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest as Alfred stood alone in the kitchen, watching the floor and occasionally scuffing the toe of his socks across the surface. They said nothing more to each other, simply listened to the music playing in the kitchen - which had progressed to John Lennon at this point - and stared at either the floor or the wall, drinking their respective drinks. It seemed that Alfred wanted to say something, as he would occasionally open his mouth, looking at the younger man as he did so. But then his mouth would fall shut and he would look back to the floor and sigh, the only sound that would pass his lips.

It was curious, but he seemed so much more different than what he had thought. Even last night he had talked non-stop, but now? Alfred was quiet, anxious even. He was wringing his hands slowly as though he could not make up his mind about what to do with them. The emotions were appearing against his will, but Matt suddenly found himself feeling bad. Bad about what, he didn't quite know. Was he feeling bad about making all of Alfred's attempts at friendship seem one-sided? Was he feeling bad about how he was being such of a, well, such of a dick to him? Or maybe there was something else making him feel bad, something he couldn't quite put a finger on just yet. The only thing he was sure of was that it made him feel like a colossal pile of shit. This guy was serious about becoming friends, and here he was, just putting up with him for the sake of humouring the man. Matthew knew it wasn't right, but he still wasn't going to do anything about it to remedy the situation.

All Matthew really wanted to say to him was 'stop making me out to be the bad guy'. But, what he did know was that there was no way in saying that without telling a lie. It dawned on Matthew that, if it was possible, he had just sunk to a brand new low grâce à la American in his apartment trying very desperately (it was obvious) to win over his elusive affection.

Congratulations, you _are_ the proverbial scum on the bottom of the fish tank.

Even the Algae Eaters don't want to eat you. You've done well for yourself, now fester there.

Matthew decided that he really, really hated himself. A lot.

Then Alfred stretched and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. He still couldn't bring himself to look over at the other. "I, ah, I _would_ do the dishes for you but you don't seem to have any hot water…"

"That happens," Matthew said with a shrug. "The water's, like, rationed throughout the building an-"

Suddenly, the apartment went deathly silent. The music had gone off, and even the tell-tale whirr of the refrigerator had ceased. Alfred looked around, frowning, and approached the iPod dock, tapping it. "Odd. It has no power." He tapped it again and made a humming sound of curiosity.

A prolonged groan of what could only be called despair escaped the Canadian curled up on the sofa and - in a moment of pure frustration - he launched a pillow at the wall across from him before flopping over and burying his face into the cushions. He smacked his fist off of the pillows and, as badly as he wanted to kick his feet and scream like a child might, he refrained from doing it. It was really damn tempting, though. And it would be an amazing way to get rid of all that pent-up stress. '_No,_' he told himself, gritting his teeth. '_Must. Act. Own. Age._'

Frowning at the display, Alfred approached the prostrate Canadian and tapped him on the head in an almost fearful manner. "What's up?"

He was given a muffled inquiry of '_what's the date?'_ in reply, the speaker not even bothering to look back up once he saw that lawyer was stood directly in front of him. And if he couldn't hear his question, it just meant he needed to get his hearing checked, not that Matthew needed to get his face up out of the pillows. Totally not that at all.

"December 18th." A pause. "What does needing to know the date have to do with anything?"

Matthew positively bemoaned life and everything associated with it upon hearing this, slamming his fist down on the arm of the sofa this time instead of just the cushions and kicking his feet savagely. Swinging his feet back down to the floor when he was finished and panting, he stood and stormed over to the fridge. Fingertips danced across the surface as he glared at the papers there before ripping one off of the surface, a pineapple magnet clattering to the tile flooring, sliding under the fridge. He studied it briefly, a frown forming on his lips, before tossing it onto the counter and sitting down once more, this time on the floor, as he rubbed his face slowly.

This had to be a joke. His power had been cut. Again. A big fat fucking ha-ha. C'mon, let's fuck around with that kid again because he can't afford jack-shit. '_Yeah, really fucking funny you guys,_' Matthew thought bitterly as he pressed in on his eyes with a hoarse sigh. What a long week this was turning out to be. And it was only half-way through.

Anyway, what was this, the third or fourth time this year the Light and Power Company had pulled the plug on him? As he thought, running a hand through his hair, he realized that it was actually the fifth time it had happened. Great. He let his head fall back, tears stinging his eyes. When he thought about it, he probably would have been better off living on the streets after all. At least that way he wouldn't have to worry about paying bills; his only concern then would be finding something to eat and somewhere to sleep. That was nothing compared to working out his taxes, his joint-paid psychiatric healthcare bills, his regular bills, his rent, his grocery money … oh, wait, he was getting into the negative dollars now. Never mind. The streets sounded better by a tenfold.

"Is everything alright?" Matthew looked up, blinking rapidly, to see Alfred crouched down in front of him. They were unbearably close together, and a shiver of anxiety rippled along his skin, crawling over his flesh and leaving the tickling sensation a spider might with its eight legs and tiny, prickly feet. But his concern seemed so goddamn _genuine, _which was the most exasperating part of it all.

Where the hell had this lawyer come from? There was no way the arrogant man he served at the supermarket was the same one crouched in front of him with a hand on his knee for balance. There was no fucking way; they were just too goddamn _different_. Different in the way they carried themselves; different in the way they spoke. Hell, they were even different in the way they _approached_ Matthew.

He just could not wrap his head around how someone could change so fast. Really, all this was getting to be too much for him.

"Yes, everything's fine," he lied smoothly, gently pushing the hand from his knee without looking at it. The warmth that had started forming there was uncomfortable; it made him feel like he was going to be sick. He ignored how Alfred's expression faltered into something that resembled hurt.

"If you say so," Alfred murmured, pulling back and sitting fully on the floor instead of crouching in front of the Canadian. He trained his eyes on the floor and sighed heavily, running a hand through his cropped blonde locks.

Deciding that sitting around and moping was going to do nothing about his current predicament, Matthew stood and stretched, running a hand through his hair, pulling out the bun in the process. "I have to go out for a while," he muttered. Hopefully he had enough of his rent set aside to go and pay off the bill to get his power back by the evening. "Um, thanks for breakfast, Alfred. I, ah, I appreciated it…" There. He said it. Now that wasn't too hard, was it?

At this, Alfred positively beamed, grabbing his iPod and iPod dock as he stood, too. The iPod disappeared into the pocket of his sweater. "No problem!" he chirped with a smile that didn't come close to meeting his eyes, grabbing the black pea coat slung over the arm chair and hauling it on over his sweater. "Oh, and don't let the food in your fridge go to waste, a'ight? As well, I took the liberty of buying you some Robitussin, Buckley's Liquid mixture and throat lozenges for that cough of yours. Make sure you actually take them, got it?"

All Matthew could do was nod weakly and pray that nothing in there would go bad too fast on him. "Yeah, ah, th-thanks."

"By the way, don't forget to lock the door this time around." And then, with a shy wave and the blue music system tucked under his arm, Alfred was gone, leaving Matthew standing alone in his powerless apartment. As he looked around, vision blurry, he saw for the first time just how empty it was. How hollow it was.

He hated it with a passion.

It felt so hard to breathe all of a sudden, and then he noticed the wetness on his cheeks that had appeared the moment he heard the lock on his door slide into place. He cursed, wiping the tears away as he sat down on the floor once more.

Even though he was the only one there, the tears were still a humiliating sign that he was weak.

That he was only human.

And he hated that with a passion, too.

* * *

As Alfred Jones drove away from the apartment building, hands resting limply on the bottom part of the steering wheel, he did not feel like himself. He felt empty, hollow, and oh-so very alone. Nausea pooled in the pit of his gut, and he would have pulled over to the side of the road to get out and vomit if it weren't for his irrational fear that he would get mugged the moment he set foot outside of the safe confines of his vehicle with OnStar services and white leather interior.

This was useless.

Slamming the breaks on as he hauled over onto the side of the road, Alfred shut off his Benz but left the radio playing, not wanting to be sat in total silence as he slumped down in his seat and rested his head against the steering wheel.

Maybe it was too early for him to be gauging his success, but even by his standards, this - winning over Matthew's trust, affections, whatever that fuck it was he needed to do to get on his good side (if he had one) - was practically impossible. There was no way he could see past the Great Wall of Social Isolation Matthew had slapped up between himself and everyone - and Alfred knew he was most definitely included in this category.

Or maybe he was just expecting too much. That was a major possibility, just not one he really liked. The lawyer folded his arms on the top of the steering wheel and rested his chin atop them, staring out through the windshield. Snow had yet to start falling, but despite being only ten in the morning, it was nearly black out. Running a hand through his hair, he picked at his cow's lick in a moment of frustration, grumbling. He was _used_ to getting his way with people immediately, be it romantically, in terms of friendship, or even in the work place. People just bent to his whim, let him have his way, and wanted to get involved with him. Perhaps it was excessive arrogance, but he was almost surprised that the Canadian had yet to 'succumb' to what women labelled as his irresistible All-American charm.

In fact, he seemed to be strongly opposed to it. Maybe that was just a Canadian thing or something. He really did not know. Let's oppose anything that's not Canadian, eh?

Yeah, that sounded about right.

So he grumbled and plucked at his jeans and the hem of his black pea coat, staring angrily out across the street and the back of the car parked in front of him. This was just so utterly hopeless…

And he couldn't help but smell a challenge attached to it.

But this kind of a challenge was different, and he didn't feel as though he would be able to go for it the way he would normally. Which was usually balls-first and with an '_I'm the fucking hero now sit the fuck down' _attitude. It seemed to him as though there would be too much effort involved, too much of a risk-failure; he knew this because of the simple fact that he damn well knew that Matthew wasn't even going to try.

For all he knew, the kid was probably just humouring him. And he would continue to do so for the next two weeks, and once he got agitated enough with the lawyer being around he'd file for a restraining order of up to 500 meters and he would then go out and buy a nice, rabid Rottweiler two days away from being euthanized for sheer neural psychosis as a small, precautionary measure. Considering the fact that he already had the gun part taken care of, might as well throw a psychotic animal into the mix.

Perhaps this was all pointless. Perhaps this had been a bad idea from the start. Perhaps he was just being stupid, thinking that he could get this kid to fall head over heels for him in the same way he had just by locking eyes with indigo ones that seemed to go purple when the light hit them a certain way. Perhaps this kid had been alone for too long and didn't see that- He paused, pensive.

Didn't see _what_, exactly?

Alfred reburied his face in his arms and heaved a sighed, pulling the purple hood of his sweater out from the confines of his jacket and up over his head as he just sat there and moped. Without even looking up, he slammed a hand down on the radio, killing the noise, not wanting to listen to whatever the fuck it was the idiotic DJ was going on about. So, he opted for silence. It was better for thinking, anyway.

The lawyer stayed in the spot for some time, head down on the steering wheel, face buried in the sleeves of his jacket, until someone came over and pounded on the driver's side window. Immediately, as his head shot up one hand went to the glove compartment, where he kept his Browning GP35. Matthew wasn't the _only_ one that kept a gun close-by; to top that off, Alfred just so happened to have five. Which was a small collection, considering the ones some of his lawyer friends kept - his friend, Jeff, kept seven alone on the main floor of his house. If there was ever a paranoid bastard, it was Jeff, a life insurance salesman that considered himself God's gift to all humanity in general, not just women.

He was relieved, however, when he saw it was only a police office, dressed warmly in a black trench coat accented by a home-knit scarf. Blonde hair cut off at the chin framed his face narrow and his frown lessened as Alfred rolled down his window. "Morning, officer," he said. "Can I help you?"

"Only two things," the NYPD officer said. "First things first, I was just making sure you were alive; I've been watching you for the past fifteen minutes now and I haven't seen you move once until just now. I was starting to get a little worried." Alfred blinked and glanced at the clock. It was quarter past eleven in the morning. He cringed. "Second thing is, you're parked in a loading zone, so I'm going to have to ask you to move your vehicle to another location, or accept a ticket for a fine, and considering how close it is to Christmas, I don't really want to have to give one out just right now. Which is it going to be?"

Alfred smiled weakly. "I'll just be on my way now then, if that's the case," he said with a pathetic chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he rummaged through the glove compartment - his gun was thankfully well-concealed - and removed a pair of black leather driving gloves, hauling them over pale hands that had gone stiff from the cold as he turned the key in the ignition. He smiled at the young-looking police officer. "Have a good Christmas, Sir."

The officer nodded and smiled, adjusting his white and red scarf. "You too," he said as he crossed the street, heading back over to his cruiser which was more than likely a lot warmer than the crisp New York air.

Jerking the gearshift back into reverse as he lightly pressed on the gas, he thrust it forward into drive as he pulled off the shoulder and onto the road, watching his speed and the rear view mirror simultaneously, making sure the officer wasn't following behind him. He wasn't. Once he pulled onto another street, he slammed his foot down onto the gas peddle, tires screeching as the car jumped from thirty to sixty miles per hour in a matter of seconds, leaving thick black rubber marks on the salty-gray blacktop.

There was a certain someone he needed to visit, and although he was the last person he would normally go to for advice - of any kind, let alone of the romantic kind - he figured that it was do it or bust.

And he was _so _not going bust on this.

Not on _his _watch.

After half an hour of swerving in and out of light traffic, crossing through Times Square at a crawl because of heavy automobile and pedestrian traffic alike (he couldn't help but see ten and twenty point signs every time a person walked across the front of his car), he arrived at Arthur's house. The Briton's black Buick was parked on the sidewalk and was still covered by a light dusting of snow. Good; the American had been worried that his brother might have been gone out for the day.

Sliding across some black ice and landing with one tire up over the curb, Alfred cringed and pulled the car in reverse, backed up and heard his tires start squealing as he got caught on a chunk of ice and on a patch of black ice at the same time. He cursed and left the vehicle as it was, stepping out of the Benz and slamming the door shut as he skidded across the street and past his brother's Buick Lacrosse, hopping up onto the sidewalk as he adjusted his jacket, pulling down the hood of his sweater. Blonde hair stood on end and he quickly smoothed out the strands. Regretfully it was still snowing, but the flurries were few, so he didn't quite need the hood now.

Up and over the six concrete stairs, and he pounded on the thick oak front door, shuffling and tapping his toes on the ground to get some feeling back into his icy feet. Sneakers were not a good choice for the mess that the streets were in, which was for sure.

The door opened and there stood Arthur, wearing a pair of black jeans and an old button down shirt, rolled up and buttoned at the elbows. Blonde hair stuck off wildly and he rose an eyebrow at Alfred. His hands were covered with paint splatters and pen marks as he pulled the door back further, granting his brother entrance to the main foyer.

"Hey. What are you doing here?" he asked. "Didn't you have a property dispute case today?"

"Nah, I gave it to one of the guys to take care of," Alfred replied with a small, dismissive wave as he was welcomed into the three-story house.

Ducking into the warm home that smelt of furniture polish, Indian take-out and sunshine - did sunshine even have a fucking smell? Because goddammit, it if did, his brother's house had the patent for it - with thanks, Alfred toed off his damp sneakers and yanked off his jacket. It was taken from him and hung on a coat rack as his brother motioned for him to follow him up over the three steps that led them further into the house.

There were fancy Christmas decorations everywhere: pine garlands curling along the banister of the stairs, white sparkling lights attached. Old World Santa's were propped up here and there alongside old fashion reindeers, candles and snowmen. It had such a warm, cozy feeling to it that Alfred felt his stomach clenched with nausea. The same thing happened every time he set foot in the Kirkland house; this overwhelming sense of loneliness overcame him and he couldn't help but feel as though he were a subpart of the human species. And as he inhaled, he could smell what might have been gingerbread cookies. That just made it all worse.

Alfred cringed. "You're not _baking, _are you?" he asked worriedly.

Arthur scowled and yanked his younger brother into a side room. "Shut your trap," he snapped, flicking a light on. It was a small room they were in, and it was filled with books. Arthur's study. "Peter and Morgan are baking a gingerbread house. I haven't touched any of it, you cheap little wank."

Laughing, Alfred sat down on the floor in front of a stack of books and started rooting through them. The majority of what was there were all folklore-based, which just so happened to be his brother's university minor was. Books on fairytales, books on magic, books on creatures of lore. They were all there. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that the elder did everything with an iron fist, he would have had absolutely no idea as to why Arthur was a judge in the first place.

"It's a good thing you haven't touched it," he said with a smirk, "because we don't need you poisoning _everyone_."

"Oh, do shut _up,_" Arthur grumbled as he sat down at an artist's board, placing a set of glasses on the bridge of his nose as he took up a felt tip pen. Before he did anything, he flicked the desk lamp on and once more hunched over the paper that was tacked to the paint-stained wood of the drawing board.

"Now," he said as he pressed the tip of the pen to the paper, "what are you even here for?"

There was a lengthy silence, punctured only by the dull chatter coming through the walls from the kitchen and the squeaking of a pen on paper.

Perplexed by this, Arthur set down his pen and pushed his glasses onto the top of his head, looking over at his brother as he did so. Alfred was sat there, looking through a book on faeries, fingertips running across the smooth, shiny surface of one of the many paintings in there, a lost look on his face.

"Alfred?"

He was ignored, and at this, the Englishman frowned deeply and he stood, approaching the younger and sitting down on the floor by him, knees drawn to his chest. "C'mon, talk to me," he said softly, losing the harshness he had been using previously when speaking to the younger. "What's eating you?"

"The high acidity content of your food after it's passed through the Mesosphere," the American said dryly, shutting the book and setting it back down on the pile. Humour, however, was devoid from his voice and expression. There was no dripping sarcasm like there would have usually been, just boredom, discontent. "That's what eating at me. Or at my skin, at least."

"Well, at least we know whatever it is has yet to affect your sense of humour, or lack thereof," Arthur muttered as he watched his brother lie back on the floor, covering his eyes with his sweater sleeves regardless of the smudges it would create on his glasses.

"Har de fucking har," Alfred muttered. He removed his arm and looked up at his brother, blue eyes watery. "I need advice."

Arthur froze. Was the world coming to an end or something? He voiced this opinion to the lawyer lying upon the floor and smirked lightly as he scowled.

"Seriously bro, this isn't funny shit at all and I'm fucking serious," Alfred snarled, eyes narrowing as he sat up. "I honest to God need your advice. You're the one that's been able to have two marriages within a span of seven years when I haven't even had a serious date in my entire life. And I'll be turning twenty-seven come July. There's something you know that I don't, and would you please share this crucial bit of knowledge with me?"

"I have a British accent and you don't," Arthur said in a flat voice as he stared at his brother. "Women on your side of the pond eat them up like those hamburgers you adore so much."

"_Arthur,_" came the growled-out warning.

"Okay, okay, my apologies," he relented, holding his hands up as a sign of surrender. "Now, tell me my little half-breed of a baby brother, what it is you need my advice for."

"Alright, so it's like this," Alfred began, propping himself up on one elbow as he made a slow down motion with his hand that the Briton rolled his eyes at. "You know Matthew, right?"

Pausing, Arthur frowned. "That enchanting little lad at the supermarket that I thought was not a lad but a lass?"

"Yeah, him. Why do you, of all people, find him enchanting?" As his brother moved to answer his question, Alfred shook his head. "Actually, I really don't want to know why you find him enchanting. You're just a lecherous pedo. Or a male cougar. One or the other.

"Anyway, we hung out last night - if you can call me cooking him food after bringing him to his apartment because he was after passing out at work 'hanging out', but I digress - and he just didn't seem very, I don't know, interested in my existence. And then this morning, I cooked him an omelette and it seemed like he really didn't want me there, like at all, so I just don't know what to do," he said, flopping back in exasperation, arms splayed out to either of his sides.

"Has it ever occurred to you that he might not want to eat your food and call it _friendship_?" Arthur asked. "How old is he?"

"I'm thinking a bit younger than me. Maybe in his early twenties?" Alfred suggested.

"Bloody hell, you don't even know how old he is?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know how old he is when he'll barely talk to me unless I'm the one that starts the conversation?"

"You could at least ask him, _genius_. That'll give you something to talk about then, won't it?" Arthur demanded sharply, rolling his eyes. God, for someone that managed to sleep with anything that had two legs, a hole and a heartbeat and graduated from Harvard Law with top academic status and honours, this … _brother_ … of his was inconceivably stupid. Clearly, he had inherited none of his family's common sense, just the book smarts. "For the love of all things sacred and holy, Alfred, make an attempt that won't be so goddamn one-sided. Find out something he likes. Indulge him in the things he enjoys. Just not to the point that you're treating him like a woman, for Christ's sake. Do you know anything he might like, or have you been too bloody wrapped up in talking about yourself to ask?"

"He likes art," Alfred said rapidly, shooting upright, "and he likes reading and music and films and stuff. Politics, too."

Arthur blinked several times. "So you've _actually _asked him what his interests are," he stated in an incredulous-sounding voice.

"No, but he's a painter," the lawyer said with a shrug. "And I was nosing around his 'fridge-"

"_Alfred!_"

"-And I came across an acceptance letter to the New York School of Visual Arts. He was going to minor in humanities and sciences and major in visual arts, from what I read there. And, from the paintings by him that I saw up and around his crappy little apartment-"

"My God, have some _respect_ for the lad!"

"-Shut up, you old vulture and let me finish." Arthur made an insulted, squawking noise that only emphasized the 'vulture' part, and he bristled at the nonchalant tone the American used to insult him. "And they're all really politically driven, and really good, too. Like commentary on Class Wars, different types of economies, the War on Terrorism. Everything. From what I saw, he's just after taking an artistic stab at whatever he can get his creative little hands on. So maybe he would like going to one of those contemporary art galleries in Manhattan, or in SoHo and the Upper East Side. Maybe he'd like it. A-And we could go to a movie or something. Uh, he has a few of those documentary, indie-type flicks. He'd like something like that. Hopefully."

Stretching and letting his legs straighten out on the floor, the Englishman crossed them at the ankles and leant backwards. "See, that's a start," he said softly, gently punching Alfred's upper arm. "You know, you're rather pathetic for someone that's such a persnickety little Yank."

"…I don't even want to know what the fuck that means," Alfred said in a flat voice.

Arthur simply smirked and stood, brushing off his pants as he went back over to his art board, pulling his glasses back down and picking his pen back up. "Give it two months," he said as he bent back over his drawing, chewing on the cap as he swept his eyes over the piece. "If you don't make any progress at all within two months - even if it's only the tiniest bit, like him just smiling at you and meaning it, that's called progress, by the way - abandon ship. It's not worth beating yourself up over and trying to pursue him, got it? Oh, and another point of inquiry, this isn't you on another one of your hero complex trips is it?"

Averting his eyes, Alfred stared pointedly at a map of the world, tacked onto the wall across from him. "Whatever are you talking about, Arthur?" he asked pleasantly.

"Don't play dumb with me," the Briton snapped, rolling his eyes. "We all remember when you cleared out your college savings fund - all thirty thousand dollars of it - and donated it to the Red Cross and OXFAM. And the fact that you bought a country mile of the Amazon Rainforest and named it after our Great Aunt Maud. Then there was that time when you were a sophomore and you were just after getting your driver's licence. God, this is my favourite story. You thought it would be an _excellent _idea to go about the city and provide food for all the stray cats you could find, as well as homeless people and you spent nearly a thousand dollars in the run of a week on Subway, Starbucks, and Whiskas. I thought father was going to burst a blood vessel when you did that."

"Too bad he didn't," he muttered in reply, scowling darkly. "And I don't have a hero complex. I just don't like seeing people unhappy, or being unable to help when I know I can."

"Father also paid for your entire Harvard education and you don't even owe him a penny for it, so I suggest you be grateful," Arthur retaliated. His younger brother stuck out his tongue saucily. "And yes, you do have a hero complex, Alfred. Mind now, it's not an entirely bad thing, I'll admit that much to you. But just don't make this out to be some sort of hero mission for yourself, this interest you've taken in what's-his-name."

"It's Matthew," Alfred pointed out sharply. "And this isn't some sort of 'hero mission'. I like the kid, okay? He's a saucy little snot, he makes me smile more often than not, and he tells it like it is. Shit like that is hard to find, especially when it comes to today's generation. And he doesn't seem at all wrapped up in himself."

"Unlike you," Arthur muttered, leaning down over his drawing and resuming his work, smirking to himself as he did so. "Just be patient in pursuing him, okay? He might be the kind of person that needs space. So just don't be overbearing. All I have to say is have patience, sit it out for two or three months and if that doesn't work, just stay friends - don't abandon him just because you can't get into his bloody trousers, alright? That would be your biggest mistake right there."

Sighing, Alfred nodded absently. His brother, as much as he hated to admit it, had reason in saying what he did. Turns out he actually knew his stuff after all. Leaning over and plucking up another book for the pile (they were endless, his brother's books on faeries), he opened it up and started browsing through it, a small smile on his face.

Then, he pointed to an illustration. "Hey, this is one of your drawings," Alfred said with a smile, running his finger across the jaw line of what was supposed to be a fairy queen. "Wasn't this the one you had published in a fantasy art magazine a few years ago?"

Nodding absent-mindedly, Arthur dragged his pen down the side of the paper slowly, almost nose-to-paper with the sheet. "Indeed it is," he murmured in an off-hand voice, not looking up. He continued darkening the final shadow lines. "Three years ago, their March issue. That book is a compilation of all the submissions they've received since August past. Complimentary shipment to me and everything. Rather nice of the blokes."

Making a soft humming noise of approval and agreement, Alfred relocated himself to lean against the wall as he sifted through the pages, licking his thumb on occasion to turn the page as it would sometimes stick to the one behind it. He sat like a little kid would, legs cross and elbows resting on his knees, cheeks in his palms. The book was perched in his lap. "What are you drawing now?"

"Peter wanted me to draw him a dragon and a knight, so that's what I'm doing," he said quietly, capping the pen for a moment before grabbing another one from the cup, this one with a finer tip. It was gray in colour, and Arthur checked it on his skin before giving a ho-hum of approval.

Chuckles. "He sure did inherit your love for all aspects of the fantasy world," Alfred commented, sounding pleased. He browsed through another few pages before stopping suddenly, hand hovering over the corner of the page, body freezing. Eyes went wide and his jaw dropped at a picture of two very nude faeries in a rather compromising position.

They published things like _that _in a mainstream art magazine?

Holy. _Shit._

Mind blown. Coherent thought no longer possible.

_Achievement unlocked._

"Morgan hates it, though," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "Says she doesn't want her son to be some namby-pamby, bohemian little urchin. Then I just remind her that she's just his step-mother and that she has no say when it comes to his interests. I think it makes her quite mad when I say that. I do love her and mean well by it, though."

Soft, slightly malevolent cackles that almost seemed to say otherwise left Arthur as he stretched, arms reaching above his head and a grunt leaving his lips. Then he slouched back down and capped his pen, popping it back into the container he had taken it from. Deft fingers moved across the clips at the top and he removed the drawing on what appeared to be a twelve by fourteen piece of white bristol board. "Care to stay for an early tea?" he inquired as he blew on the damp ink work.

"Might as well since I'm here as it is," his brother snickered, shutting the book and setting it down on the floor by the pile as he stood, going over to stand behind the seated judge that happened to be a fantasy artist in his spare time. He scanned his eyes across the paper, and then nodded his approval. "Peter's gonna like it. I'm sure of it," Alfred said with a smile, resting his chin on the crown of Arthur's head.

Arthur turned his radioactive green eyes upwards and to his brother. "I hope he does. I've spent two weeks on this piece," he said, running a messy hand through his hair, getting paint and ink mixed in amongst the wheat-coloured strands. Standing, he lazily slung an arm around Alfred's shoulder. "Come now, brother dearest. Let's get something to eat and we can talk a little more about your predicament."

"Will the Wicked Bitch of the West make me a sandwich?" Alfred inquired sweetly, batting his eyelashes at the same time.

"I'm right _here_, you jackass," came a saucy, distinctly female and Boston area-accented voice from the archway. "So take a look around before you actually say something about me, alright?"

The two brothers looked up, and Alfred winked coyly at Morgan, who leant against the doorway, glaring at him with piercing gray eyes, brows furrowed and eyes slits. Thick, curly black hair framed her narrow, pretty face as she glared daggers at the younger of the two. Her entire expression just screamed bloody blue murder.

She shook her slowly. "There's a reason you're still single," she snapped as she pivoted on her heel, storming down the hallway and back to, presumably, the kitchen, where Peter was with the gingerbread house. "And I think we just discovered what it is!"

Face falling, Alfred sighed and ran a hand through his hair, looking to the judge who watched him with a somewhat sympathetic expression. A hand was placed on his shoulder, squeezing the broad blade in a friendly manner.

Despite the excessive arguments they went through on a weekly basis, and as cheesy as it sounded, they were there for each other when the time was right. And they most certainly never overdid it. They were far more partial to small, meaningful gestures, not exuberant acts of kindness towards one another. For them, those sorts of things just went completely unnoticed. But a smile of reassurance; A consoling squeeze of the shoulder? That was all either of them needed from the other. Nothing more, nothing less: just simple, human comfort. The American gave a weak smile despite what had been said, his hand moving to cover his brother's, fingers curling around ones covered in paint and ink. He squeezed it for a brief moment before letting go as the hand fell from his shoulder and back to the owner's side as though nothing had happened between them just then.

Everything was back to normal, or as normal as it would ever be between the two half-siblings.

"Well, that's also another reason why I like Matthew," Alfred said suddenly as a smile formed on his face where there had previously been an expression of hurt. He rocked back and forth on his heels, hands tucked into the pockets of his sweater.

Arthur blinked, confusion evident on his pasty, narrow face. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"The little fucker actually has a sense of humour, unlike that _slag_ you got hitched to."

* * *

Whoever guesses which APH character the police man is wins a brownie. And, just to make a note seeing as several people have brought it up: I am aware that Gilbert has red eyes and I've been writing him as having blue ones. This is for the simple fact that normal people (although in the case of Gilbert this is debatable - this 'normal' bznss) generally do not have red eyes, therefore giving him red eyes is out of the question. I'm going for as realistic as I can make it. But he might get contacts that are red. I haven't really decided on that just yet.

Thanks for reading and leaving all those reviews, haha!


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT.**

Yawning as he exited the courthouse, black suit jacket slung over his shoulder, Alfred trotted down over the front steps, placing a cigarette to his mouth as he went. The sky overhead was a piercing shade of robin's egg blue, wispy white clouds stretched like cotton across the entire expanse of it. Not a flake of snow had fallen since he had left Arthur's place several days ago; all the city had seen since then were days like this, especially this one in particular. A sigh of content left him; he could handle cold winds if it came with bright skies and the promise of sun. It helped push away the shadows that clung to a monotonous life and made it easier to get out of bed when he saw a slither of blue along the horizon as the sun rose.

For a brief moment he re-angled the cigarette he was keeping clenched between his teeth, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose with the pad of his thumb at the same time. He let the white stick dangle there for a moment as he fished out his lighter. Once he managed to get it out, after a brief struggle with that and his wallet getting caught in his pants pocket, he took a grateful drag on the nicotine and tobacco, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before opening again. He could just feel the immediate relaxing effects of the drug as it entered his system, the sudden releasing of tension that came with it.

Shit, he needed that smoke even more than he had thought.

He was, however, not alone outside; several of the bailiffs and court sheriffs were stood outside as well, smoking their own cigarettes and chatting casually amongst the members of their little 'clique', but Alfred kept away from them, not wanting to actually talk with them right now. Distance needed to be maintained at all times. He sniffed, and then ran a hand through his hair, glaring at nothing in particular (the side walk just so happened to offend him, alright?). While he loved his job, he couldn't help but despise the majority of the people he worked with on a regular basis - especially the court officers; they were such jackasses at times it was ridiculous. They put him to shame and that was all he would say on the matter.

Turning on the spot, he craned his neck back and looked up to the court house, scanning the large, stately building with a bored gaze as he took another puff of the cancerous smoke, letting it fill and sear his lungs before exhaling through his nose. The smoke curled in wispy tendrils, pale gray in colour, creating an ill halo about his head. It was an old building, with four floors, five court rooms and plenty of offices, as well as its own small library, meant only for the lawyers that worked there on a regular basis, such as Alfred and several of his friends. It was the place where the blonde standing on the steps in front of the Church of American Justice spent most of his time, next to one of the dance clubs in Manhattan that he was a regular at, and his own apartment. He watched with slight tunnel vision as the last session for the year got out, people streaming down over the stairs, followed by a lawyer he knew quite well - they exchanged weary nods and smiles - and contemplated whether or not he himself should leave. After a pathetic internal debate, he decided he would remain for a little while longer.

Not that he had an actual case to attend to for the day - the day being December 22nd - but he had some readings to catch up on, and a meeting with the District Attorney for the entire state of New York. Something like that only happened once a year, and this time around it was at the end of the year. Call it a year-end review of his performance and the judicial state of his area, if you will. Each lawyer received one, whether they were a defence attorney, or a district attorney for just a small area or an entire county; they all had to meet with the DA of the state at some point.

Although he was supposed to pay full attention to the man's dissertation, he just could _not _bring neither himself nor his cranium to listen to the elderly man droning on and on and _on_ about the increase in violence in the backstreets of New York and the spike in drug-related crimes committed by youth and adults alike. Within a four month period, from what he could remember the older man saying, the rate had jolted upwards by nearly thirty per cent; over half of the crimes being committed were at the hands of youth alone, which Alfred found disheartening.

And then there had been that odd shoulder-pat when the DA said that Alfred was doing a commendable job in convicting these 'hooligans' for their crimes against the city, and that he was proud that Mr. Jones was the DA for Manhattan, and that he was doing an excellent job and blah blah blah de fucking blah and that he should be expecting a raise in pay within the next few months - and oh wow, that caught his attention.

But still, talk about _awkward_.

The man was so old and so damn creepy, and Alfred kind of wondered how he had yet to keel over. The dude had to be going on a hundred and fifty. Why the fuck did the state want a geezer like him to run the court systems?

Things like that were just beyond his grasp of understanding.

Crouching down on the stone steps of the courthouse, he sighed, taking a lengthy drag on his cigarette as he felt the cold winter wind pierce through the material of his dress shirt, black tie fluttering in the icy breeze. Boy was it ever freezing outside. Bumps rose on his flesh and he shivered, wrapping a strong arm around his middle as he took another long drag on his smoke, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment, re-opening them as he exhaled through his nose. The last few media stragglers were just leaving the court house now, cameras on their shoulders and microphones in their hands as they chatted amongst themselves and the judge that had been working on the case, an older man that looked like, if he were to smile, the apocalypse looked like it might have been brought about prematurely.

Dropping his partially-smoked cigarette to the concrete, using the heel of his dress shoe to grind it out, he trotted up over the stairs and squeezed past them without a word, keeping his face ducked and away from the cameras and their operators; last thing he needed was a spot on television with a healing, somewhat faded, black eye.

Although Matthew had said it was an accident, and had spent five minutes apologizing profusely to the point that he was almost reduced to tears of personal humiliation (as he had listened to the younger man beg for forgiveness for nearly breaking his admirer's face, Alfred could a) tell that he was quite Canadian indeed and b) it made him wonder if it was just his eternally polite way of saying 'that's what fucking happens when you get in my way, bitch'), the American couldn't help but wonder if it had happened on purpose.

It had been several days since it happened - two days after the omelette fiasco involving a gun and him nearly wetting his pants - and they had not spoken since the incident, which was probably for the betterment of society as a whole. Or at least just their little corner of the universe which was probably going to undergo some epic implosion - at least on Matthew's end of the spectrum - at any point in the very near future. What had happened though was the epitome of sheer humiliation; he had gotten 'accidentally' elbowed in the face when he had been helping Matthew move something or other. It was just so unimportant that he couldn't even remember what the hell they had been doing at the time. All he could remember was getting whacked in the face.

'_Accidentally_' of course.

Despite the five minutes of self-demeaning and the frantic rush to get him an ice pack for his eye that was then turning a lovely shade of royal blue mingled with charcoal, Alfred could have sworn he saw a smug, dirty smirk surface on his face when Matthew thought he hadn't been looking.

An accident, though? '_Bull-fucking-shit_!' said he the Superhero. That was like saying the September 11th Terrorist Attacks had simply been a miscalculation of the landing gears and supposed altitude of the plane and the location to land the goddamn thing. A harmless little accident that had absolutely null effect on the rest of the world entire for years to come.

He paused for a moment and considered his thoughts. Okay, so maybe saying that was a _teensy _bit on the side of extreme, but still. It illustrates the very same idea: neither of the separate incidents previously outlined were accidental in nature, at all.

Quickly trotting up over the flight of stone steps, Alfred ran a hand through his hair, tentatively fingering the tender flesh around his bruised eye with a sort of embarrassment. The last time he had gotten a shiner like this one had been when he played for the Harvard Varsity Football team, where he played as a quarterback for the first year of his being in the school. Then, however, he wore it as a badge of pride. This? This was humiliation; he had gotten a black eye at the hands (or the elbow, really) of an adorable little scrap of humanity that had a chip on his shoulder that rivalled the Berlin Wall.

Well, he surmised pleasantly as he entered his office, shutting the door behind him and locking it before going to sit down at his desk, at least Matthew was the one to turn around this time and ask him to hang out. Despite the fact that it was probably out of some obscene sense of guilt, Alfred felt absolutely elated. It was like Arthur had said; progress came in all sorts of different forms, right? Maybe this was a start to it, as hesitant and faltering as it was; maybe it was a start to something good. He felt delight swell in his chest and as he crossed the room with a bounce in his step - he was not skipping, dammit, little girls skipped not fully-grown male lawyers! - he restrained the urge to spin around and giggle like a child. They had no plans set out in stone just yet, but maybe Alfred would get Matthew to go over to his place and they could just chill out and play video games for a while. It was going to be another week before they got to do anything, based on the fact that Matthew already had plans for Saturday night - considering it was Christmas Eve - but he'd live. He'd have to, really. But goddammit he was way too fucking excited.

Flopping down at his desk and setting his feet down on the surface of it as he picked up a newspaper Arthur had photocopied for him, he started flicking through the inky pages, absently reading a few of the columns that were there before throwing the black and white print back down on the desk with a groan of exasperation. His eyes were burning already and he hadn't even looked at the newspaper for more than two minutes. Another groan, this one louder, left his lips and he flailed his arms spitefully before slumping back, panting, eyes sliding shut as he removed his feet from the desk.

He had been at this for hours now; he had arrived at seven am after his routine morning lines had worn off, and it was now six o'clock in the evening. It accounted for almost twelve hours of steady reading and note-taking, with the exception of two pee-breaks and that one smoke break.

This was not Sparta; this was a sober prostate exam with a scalding hot pitchfork.

(Sparta, on the other hand, is very temperate this time of year and December is a highly recommended time for vacationing. Don't forget to bring the children!)

_Thump._

Alfred let his forehead collide with the top of his desk as he groaned yet again, this time with pain.

He was actually going to consider hanging himself in a little bit if he was left any longer to go over the remaining three years worth of newspapers he had covering every available surface in his wide, corner office.

Letting his cheek rest on the papers covering the surface of his mahogany desk, blue eyes fluttered shut and he masked a lazy yawn, rubbing his fingertips against his eye lids, wiping away the tears that had formed there.

Sitting back upright after a few moments of dozing in and out of sleep, he ran a hand through his hair and flicked his desk lamp back on, tossing the July 7th, 2004 edition of the local newspaper on the floor in the pile of 'already read it' papers while he leant over to the other side of the desk and picked up the issue for the eighth of that month. Adjusting his glasses, he removed his iPod from beneath the pile of papers and stuck in one of the ear buds, turning the device on as he poised a highlighter over the column he was currently focusing on. Or, at least trying to focus on; Lady GaGa was currently far more appealing than continuing his binge-reading before the trial started back up in another five to six months.

Something seemed to break with his attention span and sanity the moment he realized there was still half a year left to wait for the start of the retrial. He dropped the papers back on the desk and settled down, placing his feet back on the desk as he lazily highlighted bits and pieces of text every ten minutes or so.

At around seven thirty, there was a sharp rap at his door, and Alfred's head shot up, the ear bud falling from his ear as he did so, a frown creasing his lips and turning them downwards. Who the hell was still around at this hour, other than the other lawyers and the security guards? Most normal people were at home having dinner and watching television with their families by now, not sticking around the courthouse like he was, slaving his guts out for a case that still had least a half of a year before it would get back into even just the jury selection process of it all.

Not bothering with pausing the music, he stood and capped the yellow pen, setting it down on the line he had been previously as to keep from losing his spot; he crossed his office, stepping over a teetering pile of newspapers from the spring and summer of 2006. Jiggling the old brass knob, he unlocked the door, and grinned at the woman stood there, who in turn was glaring at the lawyer as though he carried the Bubonic Plague and the Spanish Flu at the same time. _Yes_! He had completely forgotten that he had sent his secretary on a Rotten Ronnie's run.

Oh, bless her cotton socks; he could positively kiss her for it.

"Two Big Macs, no pickles and with cheese, one super-sized fries and a freshly baked apple pie," the woman said in a flat voice, scowling slightly. "And a large Cola, via your request, Mr. Jones. Will that be all?"

"You," he said as he took the bag of McDonalds from her, "are an angel of the highest rankings amongst God or whatever the fuck it is up there. And yeah, that's it. You can go on home now, Audrey. I appreciate you coming in to help me with this on your day off."

Audrey, who happened to be the lawyer's personal secretary, smiled, her gaze softening. "It's no problem," she said with a shrug. "I get paid for it either way, so it doesn't bother me. Anyway, I couldn't leave you here all defenceless amongst that mess you have in there without sorting and categorizing it all for you."

"You could have," Alfred said with a laugh, peering into the bag and grinning. "You just happen to be incredibly anal about disorganization and I am the level seventy master of organized chaos."

"It's called OCD, you twit," she said, the scowl returning as Alfred leaned over and gave her a firm peck on the cheek. Sharp brown eyes roamed over him, taking in his appearance as a frown formed on her narrow, dark-skinned face. "You look pretty run down, hun. Have you eaten yet today? Did you get much sleep last night?"

Shaking his head 'no' on both accounts, Alfred plucked two fries out of the big, the deep fried pieces of potato still scalding hot, and chomped down on them before tipping the bag in her direction as an offering. The woman patted her flat stomach. "Diet," she said wryly. Alfred rolled his eyes, scoffing, and before he could say anything against her needing to be on a diet, she interjected, "Hey, you're worse than me; when you work seventeen hours a day your diet consists of coffee, cigarettes and cocaine. So don't bitch at me when you're even worse off than me in the long run."

"Yeah yeah, whatever," the American muttered, flickering his eyes away as his secretary hit a little too close to home for his comfort. He shifted awkwardly and peered back down in the bag for somewhere to look, trying not to giggle and grin when he saw a kid's toy in there. What a sweetheart; she had gotten him a Hot Wheels car. An absolute _doll_.

Audrey seemed to realize this, for she, too, looked away and sighed. "Don't stay here too late, alright?" she asked in a soft voice, hand coming out to firmly squeeze his upper arm in a tender, friendly gesture. They finally locked eyes again, and Alfred gave a singular nod of agreement. "Make sure you're out of here by at least nine o'clock tonight. I don't want to come in here tomorrow morning and find you asleep at your desk like I did last week." She received another firm peck on the cheek before she turned to leave, letting Alfred return to his work for the evening.

After he devoured his burgers, of course. They were top priority.

The man shut the door with a sigh and turned to lean against it, sliding down the length of the wood as he set his McDonalds down on the floor, removing a burger from the confines of the bag as his stomach growled with something that could only be called sheer anticipation; he was absolutely famished. It had been over a day since he had consumed anything, like she had said, other than cigarettes, Starbuck's coffee and cocaine - the Three C's that got him through the day, as sad as it was.

Chomping down on the Big Mac, he gave a moan of what could only be called total pleasure. Best first meal of the day, hands down. If it weren't for the fact that he knew he would get obscenely fat, he would gladly live off of McDonalds and Burger King for the rest of his life.

As he gazed around his office, slowly taking in his surroundings - the thick velvet draperies, the old furniture, the book cases filled with texts, volumes of encyclopaedias, and books on the law and American Constitution - Alfred decided that he was after spending more than enough time in his office for that day; it had been a week since he had been to the gym, and he had been holed up in his office for over twelve hours by this point. It was the perfect formula for losing all of his muscle mass and risking it turning into flab and other disgusting, unmentionable things. He shuddered at the mere thought of it.

Enough was enough; sure he was dedicated to the case and all, but fuck man, he had to draw the line somewhere. And where better than at the thirteenth hour marker?

Wolfing down the second burger and finishing off his fries within a matter of ten minutes, the American got up and stretched lazily, taking the bag and empty containers, dumping them in the garbage bin by his door. He was about ready to lock the door behind him when he remembered the iPod he had left running on his desk. There was no way he was leaving to go to the gym without having his own music to listen to instead of the overplayed shit on the radio, which was for sure. Scooting back across the room, jumping over a stack of organized newspapers courtesy of Audrey, he snatched it up off the desk and then turned to leave, just so happening to glance at one of the newspapers spread open on the floor.

He did a double-take of the contents on the front page.

And then Alfred froze, eyes widening behind his glasses as he read the headline from the paper dated to October 12th, 2006: "_Senior Attending Bishop Ford Central Suspended for a Week for 'Artistic Expression': Justifiable or Ridiculous?_" He stooped down and quickly picked it up, staring at it with wide-eyes and a slack jaw.

It couldn't be.

There was no fucking way it could be.

Beneath the headline was the picture that had captured Alfred's attention: a youth was stood in front of a wall that had been painted from one end to the other, depicting something that appeared to be a mixture of Russian and American history alike - everything from the start of the Cold War right up to the fall of the Berlin Wall, and how America and Russia tied into all of it. There was a rather demented-looking Uncle Sam poised in one corner of the picture, a frenzied look on his face as he pointed to the expanse of the picture with a musket that looked as though it had been dated to the Revolutionary war, a speech bubble by the icon's mouth, but he couldn't make out what the words were saying. Stalin, Kruschev, Truman and Kennedy were off in the far corner, looking smug as they more or less sneered at whoever walked by the painting. The four leaders looked just as twisted as Uncle Sam did. Such a brilliant execution of ideas that were both politically incorrect on the Americain side of the border and correct at the same time that it was nauseating; someone knew what they were doing and who it was they were aiming to piss off - besides everyone that was offended by socialism and/or Marxism, which was probably well over half of the United States of America.

It was not the painting, however, but the youth that had grabbed him so quickly by the throat in the way it had. It was the individual that had painted the masterpiece featured on the front page. He had curly blonde hair and a heart-shaped face, stunningly dewy indigo eyes and a confident, bright smile as he leant against the wall behind him, a paint brush in one hand and a can of spray paint in the other. All he wore was a simple white t-shirt that read '**Free Iran**' in red and green text, and a pair of dark denim jeans, torn at the knees, both of the articles of clothing covered in copious amounts of paint. Even his sneakers were covered in the colourful splatters. Despite being so tall and lanky, he appeared tiny, slight beneath what he was wearing.

And above all he looked utterly defiant, as though daring whoever was taking the picture to say anything against him, to tell him he was wrong and wasn't allowed to speak his mind through whichever medium he so chose to speak. There was a challenge written on his pale, delicate face, and if Alfred had run into him during that time period, he would have turned tail and let the youth have his way first.

Matthew.

Holy heroin addicts in Detroit, Batman.

That was fucking _Matthew _on the cover of the newspaper in front of the mural.

As he glanced at the caption beneath it, he realized that he was looking at a seventeen-year-old Matthew Williams, the very man he had been trying to win the affection of. '_Matthew Williams, seventeen and the artist of this controversial mural, a student at the private catholic school Bishop Ford Central is facing a week-long suspension and a $1000 fine on account of his 'defacing' the school with anti-capitalism propaganda, which he says was for an art project.' _He dropped the paper on his desk and sat on the floor, running a hand through his hair. The article accompanying it he could read later because his mind was just not producing logical thoughts anymore.

This was strange, to say the least. In that picture, Matthew looked so happy, so healthy, full of life, like he had a desire to live and if anyone said otherwise, they'd just get a big 'fuck you!' in response. The Matthew he knew now, however, was the complete opposite of this. He was frail, sickly-looking at times with his pale skin, thin face and shadowed eyes. The Matthew he knew didn't seem to have as much of a zest for life like he used to, apparently.

Such a terrifying contrast between the two individuals, and all Alfred could wonder was what the hell had happened to the boy in the picture to make him who he was now.

* * *

_Seated in his bedroom, sketchbook in hand, Matthew was perched on the window seat that overlooked a nearby park, one leg swinging lazily as he pushed his curly blonde hair back out of his face. He hummed pleasantly, leaning down to scratch at his ankle on occasion, not once tearing his gaze from the paper in his hands. He was attempting to sketch the couple seated on the park bench, but found himself growing bored of it; they were plain and dull, just sitting there holding hands and giggling like a couple of morons and goddamnit, did he ever hate drawing people that were plain and dull._

_Not to mention he felt like a bit of a creeper for just sitting there, watching and drawing them without their knowledge, but whatever, he could totally overlook that._

_But he wanted excitement in his art, and for the love of fuck and all things holy, he was not getting excitement in this art by drawing some stupid, lovey-dovey college students._

_Maybe, he decided, it was time to put it away for the day. Anyway, it was far too nice to be inside drawing the day away when he could go for a walk in the park or something. The breeze drifted in through his partially open window, causing the curtains to flutter slightly, and the smell of a sweet summer wind to permeate his room, freshening it up as it did so. _

_Yawning and stretching, he took his sketchbook and tossed it onto his bed as he meandered slowly over to his desk, taking his laptop and propping it up in his lap as he placed his feet on the surface, crossing them and hooking his legs at the ankles as he browsed down through his Facebook page. Before he went anywhere, he had a few things to take care of, such as replying to a wall post from Jeanne asking him if he wanted to come to her party, one from his friend Miguel asking him if he had a copy of the Resident Evil movie that he could borrow for the weekend, and an invitation to come over and stay the night at Gilbert's house. No, yes, God yes. Easy answers, thankfully. Nothing he had to spend too much time thinking about._

_Anyway, anything Jeanne asked him would be either ignored outright or denied; the chick was a bitch, and there was no way that he, a fifteen-year-old, was going to even consider hanging out with a snotty little girl that was two years younger than him and still, as the rumours stated, played with Barbie dolls. He was a sophomore that was in a relationship, and she wasn't even a freshman yet. That was just eww on so many different levels that it was unreal. Someone had to draw the line somewhere, and when the Barbie dolls came into light, that would be where it was formed. Think Great Wall of China with the reinforcements of the Berlin Wall._

_He was about to log onto MSN, to see if Gilbert was on in order to ask him when he wanted to hang out and when he could stay over for a night, when he heard Jason, his mother's husband and his newly christened step-father, screech out for him in a voice that sounded less-than-pleased. The man had a grating voice as it was, but when he yelled, it became a thousand times worse._

_Just think about the sound a cat would make when getting run over by an eighteen-wheeler, and then getting backed up over before it had a chance to die, and you more or less have what it sounded like to Matthew._

_Standing hesitantly, feeling his gut twist into a knot that made him positively stomach sick, Matthew slipped his cell phone into his pocket and left his room. He poked his head around the corner of the stairs after padding silently down the hall. The man was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean he wasn't down there waiting for him in the same way a shark waited for that one, unsuspecting idiot to fall overboard and become his next meal. He swallowed hard and ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Y-Yes?" Shit. He squeaked. _

"_Get down here. _Now._"_

_Fuck shit damn._

_He hesitated, feet feeling as though they had been rooted to the spot._

"_I said _now_, Matthew." _

_The man was practically snarling._

_Oh God, he was totally fucked._

_Trotting down over the stairs, he paused on the last step, trying to hold back the bile that was starting to rise in his throat as he made his way into the living room. Jason, his step-father of seven months, stood at the foot of them, arms folded across his chest as he glared daggers at the boy. He couldn't even bring himself to say anything to his step-father; the anxiety-driven nausea was so strong. There was a palpable tension between the fifteen-year-old and the forty-three-year-old, as the former shied away while the latter looked positively murderous._

"_Yes, sir?" he asked meekly, voice a mere whisper as he tried to edge his way back upstairs._

"_It's your turn to do the dishes and laundry," the man snapped in reply, eyes narrowed and positively arctic. He held himself with a sort of arrogance, an attitude that screamed 'I am holier than thou now suck it'. Chestnut brown hair that was starting to go gray at the sides, dark eyes and he had the slightest scruff on his cheeks and neck; the man had not bothered to shave for the day and if anything, it made him look all that much more worse in the Canadian's eyes._

_When his step-father said this, Matthew positively deflated with relief, shoulders sagging and his knees nearly buckling in the process. Dish duty. He could handle that. God, could he ever handle that. "Of course!" he said with a soft smile, indigo eyes crinkling gently at the corners as he hopped down the last few steps and made his way to the kitchen, a slight bounce in his step as he went._

"_Who said I was done with you just yet, Brat?"_

_He froze in place and shut his eyes, rubbing at them behind the frames. Turning after a moment, he smiled warily at his step-father, observing him from a distance, a small No Man's Land in between them, the Danger Tree the front door and the barbed wire the sofa. There was space between them, which was what mattered. A quick glance about the room and he saw that Jason was blocking his way to both the phone and the front door. He swore in his head, using ever cuss word he knew and had learned from Miguel and Gilbert. He did a rear inventory. The back door was bolted shut, and with the two dead bolts and chain, it would prove to be too much of a struggle in case he needed to use that one. Fuck. _

_Turning his gaze back to Jason, the two men locked eyes. Even from this distance he could tell the man had been drinking, and heavily at that; he could smell the booze off of him, and the bastard was stood on the other side of the room with no means of ventilation to blow the stench of liquor in his direction. That, and a quick glance to the kitchen counter and he knew he would find an empty bottle of Jack Daniels there. Of course his mother had to marry an alcoholic that had issues with insecurity in thinking his new wife happened to love her son more than he. Of course. _

_Because something like that made _everything_ better when he thought things couldn't get worse than what they already were._

"_D-Do you know where m-mom is?" Matt asked in a tiny voice, edging back into the kitchen. Jason caught the movement and snarled, successfully stopping the minute movements dead in their tracks. _

"_Stop stuttering, for fuck sakes. And she's gone out of town for the weekend," Jason growled. "So I'm stuck babysitting your sorry ass."_

_Matthew refrained from rolling his eyes and tried not to sigh too loud. Just like his mother, to run off with some of her friends for the weekend to some spa in the Upper East Side, leaving him there with that tyrant he was supposed to call his father. Since they had gotten married, so much had changed, and there were times the boy wondered if his mother was still the same person. _

"_I apologize for the difficulties I present in being your step-son," he said, feeling a smirk trying to tug the corners of his mouth upwards. He kept them tense and flat though, something he had grown quite practiced in over the past couple of months; apparently Jason didn't quite like it when he smiled, and he had ended up with more than one black eye because of it._

_He yelped when something glass was unexpectedly flung in his direction, arms flying up over his head in a protective manner as he screwed his eyes shut. The trinket shattering against the wall, shards tinkling to the floor in a pile of sharp shrapnel. "Don't you dare take that fuckin' tone with me, you little brat," was the snarl he received in reply to his somewhat sarcastic reply. "I'll beat the shit out of you if you do. Now go do those dishes, right now." Well now shit. Jason was drunker than he had previously thought; if he looked close enough, he could see that the man was swaying slightly on the spot._

_Muttering a quiet, venomous 'asshole' beneath his breath, Matthew pivoted on his heel, stalking out into the kitchen as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Suddenly and very unexpectedly, a large hand tightly gripped his upper arm and jerked him backwards. It felt as though his arm was being yanked clean out of its socket; pain shot up in agonizing jolts as he was ripped to the side. A strangled yelp escaped his throat as he was slammed up against the wall, and he felt his stomach churn as the smell of whiskey and rum assaulted his senses; his step-father had him pinned to the wall of the kitchen, and had bent down to his level. They were practically nose-to-nose. Immediately he jerked his head to the side in an attempt to get the man's breath out of his face, but this only succeeded in having his step-father roughly pinch his cheek and turning his face so that they could look at one another directly. _

"_What did you just call me, you little bitch?" Jason snarled, feral in the way he drunkenly bared his teeth and glared. _

"_I didn't say anything," Matthew said quietly, lower lip trembling as he tried to press himself closer against the wall. God, if only he could turn invisible or something and just slip out of the house altogether. Maybe he'd start believing in God again if he could just do that much._

_A palm connected with his cheek, and he could feel his baby-soft skin stinging painfully from the open-hand slap he received. So, this was going to be just like any other day. How dreadfully routine of it all. But it still didn't stop him from being any less terrified of the angry man in front of him, a man that resented his existence. He bit down on his lip so hard that he could taste the coppery liquid the skin expelled from the force with which his teeth dug into the inside of his mouth, white enamel becoming slicked with crimson in the process._

"_I asked you a question," his step-father growled, the hand on his arm tightening so hard he could feel his flesh bruising. Any harder and his arm would probably break. A whimper escaped his lips, much to his humiliation. "When I ask you a question I expect an answer, and an honest one at that. So what did you just call me?" He spoke in a sickly sweet voice, smiling pleasantly, dangerously. Matthew watched him with a distinct sense disgust growing in his chest, wondering how his mother could remain oblivious to all of this. Perhaps it was the lies he told, both Jason and Matt himself, which kept her oblivious. But something just had to give. Something. __**Anything**__. _

"_I said _nothing_," he reiterated stubbornly. _

_Another slap, this one harder than before. Matthew could taste more blood in his mouth and his cheek was positively burning from the force with which he had been struck. Tears threatened at the backs of eyes, and something akin to a sob sounded in his throat. _

_After another slap to the face, one that made him see stars and made his knees go weak from the pain, Matthew shrieked an 'I called you a fucking asshole, you bastard!' instead of going with the smooth lie that wasn't being bought by the older man. This was obviously a mistake as it earned him an elbow to the jaw instead of just an open-palm slap to the face. Pain flared along his jaw, and this time he actually did let out a strangled cry, hand going up to the stricken spot as he reeled away, staggering and nearly crashing into the doorframe. _

_Dropping down onto his knees and crawling away from his step-father, Matthew spat out the blood that had been pooling in his mouth, under his tongue, in the back of his throat, out and onto the floor, fighting back the tears of pain that were threatening to spill over and down his cheeks. Although he did not visibly cry, he dry-sobbed, hiccoughing and trying not to gag from the force behind it. When Jason made a lunge for him, he scrambled to his feet with a startled shout, his eyes going wide and staggering out into the living room, nearly crashing into and knocking over a table with a vase on it. Just a little something to add to the mess._

_Jason followed him with lazy steps, knowing full well that he was able to out-muscle and corner the lithe fifteen-year-old. He walked with a confident swagger, approaching the shaking teen with a hateful smirk on his lean, pale face. The boy managed to evade him several times, once even managing to cause the lunging man to almost slam drunkenly into the wall himself as he vaulted his agile body over the back of the sofa. Finally catching him, grabbing Matthew by the shoulder, he shoved him at the wall, holding him there by a hand placed loosely around his throat, stooping down and glaring at the trembling boy. There was a cold smirk on his face._

"_Listen here and listen good," he hissed, dark eyes narrowing as he sneered at his step-son. Again, the smell of liquor bathed over his skin and all the boy wanted to do was vomit. "The only reason I'm putting up with you is because of how much your mother loves you. Otherwise, you'd be gone for good; I'd have you shipped off the fucking continent so fast your dead _grandmother _would feel it."_

_A calloused hand was resting on his hip now, and Matthew suddenly went rigid, feeling his blood run cold as the hand moved up from his thin hip to rest on his side, Jason's thumb drawing small circles on his pale, smooth skin. His eyes were now impossible wide and a small whimper escaped him. The man's lips quirked in a smirk, even colder than the last one. This was different, and _very_ unwanted. The hand on his side ran up further, taking the material of his shirt with it. _

_That was the final straw for the boy._

_Without even thinking what he was doing and about to do though, the Canadian slugged his step-father square in the jaw, feeling his knuckles crack painfully as he did so, an agonizing jolt shooting up as far as his elbow._

_And then the next thing Matthew knew, he was being thrown backwards against the fireplace with a yell escaping his lips. The back of his head hit the brick mantle with a sickening crack and he slumped down as his eyes rolled up in his skull, motionless, against the red brick of the old ingle. Blood slicked the beige part of the mantle, where Matthew's skull had made contact with the concrete, and was beginning to pool on the floor, where he currently lay, unmoving yet still conscious. His eyes fluttered, and with every slight noise he heard in the room, he flinched as though he had been struck by yet another unseen blow._

_After a moment, he dragged himself upright, the room around him spinning violently, like a madman's merry-go-round. Focus. He couldn't focus, on anything, anything at all. He just couldn't. Jason was stood a little ways away from him, eyes wide, an astonished look on his face as though he hadn't actually intended for his step-son to crash against the hearth and bash his skull open the way he had. A peculiar look of sobriety registered on the older man's face. Then the youth suddenly retched, doubling over but swallowing the vomit that had risen in his throat. Last thing he needed to do was puke on the floor; he'd get more than shoved into a fireplace that was for sure._

_In a raspy voice, one that was weaker and had lost the venom it had before held, Jason spoke up, pointing to the door, eyes shut and a hand on the side of his head. "Get out," he hissed. "Just get the fuck out and don't come back until Sunday night, when your mother gets back, do you understand me?"_

_Matthew was up and on his feet, not even taking a change of clothing, out the door in a matter of seconds as the world careened around him, the ground coming up to try and meet with his face._

_Blood still dripped down the back of his neck, staining his purple t-shirt a brownish-red. His hair was matted with the substance, and he knew his face was more than likely in a state of disarray as well. Everything around his was being viewed in tunnel vision, and he had absolutely no idea as to how he was still standing upright; there was no fucking way it was perseverance. He felt like a piece of humanoid shit, to be frank. This wasn't the first time this had happened, either, sadly enough; Jason had beaten him black and blue more than once, and now that it was summer, he was going to be pressed for excuses about why he had bruises on his arm and face. He wouldn't be able to use volleyball practice or taking a fall during cross-country as an excuse anymore, not since school had gotten out two weeks ago. _

_Looked to him like it was high time to put his notorious creativity to good use once more._

_He made it to the end of the block before he collapsed against a stairwell leading up to a fancy apartment, identical to the one he lived in, dizziness and blood loss finally amounting to more than what his tiny, young body could handle. His head lolled briefly before it came to rest on the rock behind him. The moment his head made contact with the sun-heated concrete, he hissed with pain, feeling his stomach turn violently from the agonizing pounding in his head that made even the most vicious migraine look absolutely tame. Tears rolled steadily, freely, down his cheeks, the sun overhead beat down without a shred of mercy, and as he took out his phone, he immediately knew who he was going to go to. _

_A simple text message was sent: _Come get me. Corner.

_That text message, he knew, would be the one that saved him; he had sent it more than once to the first person on his speed-dial. _

_And within twenty minutes a car pulled up alongside him, and out of it bounded a pale-faced, worried eighteen-year-old with a shock of white-blonde hair. Gilbert Beilschmidt, a senior at his school who also just so happened to be his boyfriend (and part-time guardian angel)._

_Running around the front of the car, he vaulted himself over the hood of another as he approached the semi-alert Matthew, who was reclined with his back against the solid concrete rail of the steps, head resting backwards, eyes slit-like in his ghastly white face. Blood was smeared against the steps, and the back of his entire t-shirt was stained with the substance. He looked like a war zone. _

"_Mattie?" he asked weakly, crouching down beside the teen, greeting him with a gentle kiss to his temple, letting his spindly fingers gently caress the soft, bruised cheek. _

_Hazed-over eyes fluttered open and he was given a tentative smile. "Hey, Gil," he whispered, voice cracking. He licked his lips; they were parched. "C-Could I stay at your place for the weekend? Ju-Just till my mom gets back, I promise."_

"_Oh, God, of course you can, Birdie. You don't even have to ask that." Sitting on the steps beside Matthew, Gilbert sighed, pulling the limp teen close to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around the thin frame, burying his face in amongst his blonde curls as the younger started to sob openly into his chest. Delicate, bird-like hands fisted into the material of his Morrissey t-shirt and he breathed in deeply, eyes fluttering. _

"_Fuck," Gilbert snarled, somehow pulling the sobbing, battered youth even closer to his chest, "that fuck face is after doing quite the number on you this time around, hasn't he." Not a question, simply a statement. There was a moment of silence punctured by soft crying before the American spoke again, "You know I could get my dad to go all angry 'Nam vet on his ass, right?"_

"_That's what scares me," came the soft mumble from Gilbert's shirt, followed by a watery giggle._

_Laughing softly as though he were glad to see his boyfriend's sense of humour was still intact, he carded his fingers through the blood-dampened locks, stopping only when there was a hiss of what was no doubt pain. Then, it seemed as though the German-American finally pieced together the reaction and the copious amounts of blood. If it was possible, his face went even whiter than before. He scrambled for words to apologize with. "Ah, fuck shit damn, sorry Birdie, I-I didn't mean to h-hurt you," he said in a frantic rush, peering down to the boy that quivered against his chest._

_Matthew shook his head 'no', slowly sitting upright despite how dangerously his head spun. Nausea swelled once more and he swallowed the vomit that rose in his throat. He gave a long, exaggerated blink before leaning forward, pressing his lips against Gilbert's freshly shaved cheek. His skin, soft beneath his lips, smelt and felt amazing. "S'okay," he murmured, forehead coming to rest on the other's shoulder. "You're not the one that hurt me."_

_He didn't comment on how he felt the German-American's hands clench into fists at the base of his spine. All he knew was that it made him feel a world safer despite the threat he knew it posed when directed against someone he didn't know or trust, or someone he hated; like the boy's step-father for instance. _

_Pressing his lips to the other's neck, Matt sighed softly. Exhaustion, driven by the deadly concussion and blood loss combined, was beginning to overtake him. "'M so tired." _

_Without another word, Gilbert hefted up the slight teen, keeping him pressed firmly to his chest as he took slow, measured steps to his car, a candy apple red 1973 Mustang Mach 1 he had painstakingly restored to its former glory alongside his brother and his father. Being as incoherent as he was, Matthew barely realized he had been placed in the car, only noticing it when he felt the momentum it had picked up, causing the backseat to vibrate._

"_Gil?" he whispered, hoping his voice was loud enough for the other to hear. He swallowed the lump in his throat, trying not to puke. A small part of his brain screamed at him for getting blood in Gilbert's car._

"_Yeah, Birdie?"_

"_I'm sorry."_

_There was a long moment before Gilbert replied, but when he did, his voice was like ice. "You don't need to be apologizin'," he said, somewhat harsh-sounding. Matthew, however, was not bothered by it; from the strained sound of his boyfriend's voice, he could tell that he was suppressing the majority of it. "I already told you that before, you have nothing to apologize for, alright?"_

"_Okay." A brief pause, and then, "Gil?"_

_Ever the patient man, Gilbert replied in the same manner as before, voice equally soft and tender._

"_I'm going to go to sleep now, okay?"_

_He was surprised by the car coming to a stop, and the driver turning around to face the lying down passenger, a look of concern in his pale blue eyes. "No, don't go to sleep," he said rapidly. "You can't go to sleep when you're after taking a blow to the head like that." Calloused fingertips so much more gentle than Jason's, slid across his cheek and down over his lips where they remained for a brief moment. Matthew kissed them, giving a small, shy smile. _

"_But Gilbert," he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. He grumbled when his boyfriend shook him awake. "I'll be fine. I just want to take … a little nap, s'all."_

_Again, Gilbert shook his head 'no'. "You can't, Matthew," he said firmly. "You got to stay awake for me, _please_." He sounded absolutely desperate; he looked it, too, with how he chewed on his lower lip and fidgeted in the driver's seat, eyes flickering about as though he were looking for someone to help him. "Let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours."_

"_That's not possible, silly," Matthew said with a soft giggle, the sound only getting louder as he saw his boyfriend's eyes soften and a blush creep into his cheeks. "You have to keep your eyes … on the road … not me …" _

_His eyes fluttered shut and he sighed, burying himself into the leather material of the back seat, loving the smell of freshly cleaned leather, motor oil and something that was distinctly Gilbert. He felt the hand leave his cheek, and after that, it felt as though he had lost all the sensations in his body._

_After a brief moment he opened his eyes, starting when he found himself not in the backseat of a Mustang, but in the Beilschmidt's living room, stretched off on the sofa with a thick blanket covering his form. Across from him, in the nearby dining room, Gilbert and his younger brother, Ludwig, a junior at their school, played cards, the two of them smoking cigarettes in a nonchalant manner as their father, a tall, blonde, full-blooded German man sat in the kitchen, fiddling with his laptop as he drank some water. There was something thick on the back of his pulsating head, making it heavier than what was necessary. Slowly, after a long moment, he glanced beneath the blanket and saw that he was wearing some of Gilbert's clothing in place of his own- his gray cargo shorts and a Sex Pistols t-shirt that read "GOD SAVE THE QUEEN". The teen grinned wryly, feeling lightly humorous. _

_There was no way in hell his boyfriend was getting this shirt back._

_Rolling off of the sofa and to his knees on the floor, Matthew used the low coffee table to his advantage for standing, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around his thin shoulders. A quick glance to the window and he saw that the sky beyond the glass was pitch black. How late was it? And how long had he been out cold for? All he knew was that he had a brutal headache and it felt like someone had taken a pick-axe to his skull…_

_Then he remembered. _

_Jason. Fireplace. Hitting his head. Texting Gilbert. The car ride._

… _Fuck._

_Sighing, he approached the two brothers with slow steps as the vertigo passed, sinking down onto a chair beside his boyfriend and resting his head on his shoulder, watching the two brother's playing with a dull fascination. _

"_Hey," Gilbert said softly, peering down at the bleary-eyed Canadian beside him, a tender look on his face that mingled in with concern. "How you feelin', Birdie?"_

"_Gross," came the flat reply. _

_And then: "You're getting your ass kicked by Ludwig, aren't you?"_

_The eighteen-year-old simply grumbled and removed Matthew's face from his shoulder as his brother snorted, grinning at the boy that was only a year younger than him. Gilbert started scowling even further as his father cackled from the kitchen, clapping his hands with an ill-placed sort of mirth. Need it be said that Mr. Beilschmidt liked Matthew?_

_Glancing around the dining room, the blonde-haired Canadian frowned. "Where's your mom?" he asked politely, putting his head down on the table, cheek pressed firmly against the cool wood as he stared up at his boyfriend. _

_The older teen took a lazy drag on his cigarette, exhaling out his nose before answering. "She's in Boston on business," he said. "Some company meeting; dad'll be going out there later on the week. Right old man?"_

"_Shut your trap, you little punk-ass shit," Mr. Beilschmidt said with a gruff chuckle as he got up from the kitchen table with a groan, hand going to his lower back as he made an attempt to straighten up; despite being only in his late fifties, the shrapnel he had taken to the leg and bullet to the stomach when he was twenty had left him with a permanent limp and stiff body. With his free hand he shut his laptop as he hobbled his way out into the dining room, leaning on a wooden cane for support. Pale blue eyes, similar to Gilbert's, swept across the three teenagers in the room. The war veteran took a seat at the head of the table, adjusting his chair so that he was seated on either side of his sons. He smiled slightly._

"_Nice to see you're avake, Matthew," he said, his English harshly accented from years of speaking only German. "That vas quite the mess you had on the back of your head. I'm not at all surprised you remained unconscious the entire time I cleaned you up. Vould you care to tell us vhat happened?"_

_Shifting awkwardly, he sighed. "I got in a fight with Jason again," he muttered, "but this time I actually fought back and he shoved me into the fireplace." A pale hand went up to touch the back of his skull, where the wound had been, only to have his fingers brush across a thick pad of bandages. That explained the weight. Fixing his chin-length curly hair, he styled it so that it fell over the covering without showing off too much of it. Being inconspicuous was the key. A small murmur of displeasure left him and he rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand._

_A look of unspoken rage flitted across Dietrich Beilschmidt's face, and the German shook his head slowly, muttering in rapidly in his home dialect while his son's eyes went wide with shock. Matthew shrunk down in his chair, averting his own eyes as he felt his cheeks heat up; even though he didn't understand a lick of the language, save for the endearments Gilbert used when they were together, he suspected that the business man was probably cursing out his step-father with the vilest words he knew. And if it was something that shocked Gilbert, it had to be pretty vile._

"_Let me tell you this now: an excuse oft a man like him vould have been used as Guerrilla bait back in Vietnam," he snarled venomously, a large beefy hand clenching into a fist as he set it down firmly on the thick wood table. "I don't know vhy you don't just get him hauled up on charges of child abuse, Matthew. You'll do yourself a vorld oft good by doing so; it's either that or I go down there vith one oft my guns und blast him back to Alcatraz."_

_Common knowledge stated that Dietrich Beilschmidt owned an arsenal of illegal weapons, including semi-automatic submachine guns, three Russian AK-47s, and if he tried hard enough, he could probably turn Central Park into a WWII-era mine field._

"_My mom loves him," he whispered, eyes fluttering shut as tears threatened to spill down over his cheeks. Saying that felt like a punch in the gut; while yes, he was more than happy that his mother had finally found someone after being alone for so long, it killed him that the man she married had more issues than what the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition would have put out on the shelves. "She loves him, and she doesn't know anything about this happening. I don't want to ruin her life any more." At this, Gilbert's face fell and the older youth sighed, brushing his fingertips across his boyfriend's knuckles, leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. A ghost of a smile crossed Matthew's pallid face and he took Gilbert's hand in his, squeezing it lightly before letting go once more._

_Despite this, Mr. Beilschmidt simply smiled his own little smile, saying nothing to his son or his son's boyfriend._

_For a long while they sat in silence, the two brothers still smoking their cigarettes and playing cards, Matthew watching them with a muted amusement as they would cast each other sly, cunning looks. Their father spent the duration of the game alternating between watching his sons playing and the Canadian seated across from him._

_And then, as the game came to an end, Ludwig slapped his hand down on the table, looking smug as he ground out his cigarette in the crystal ash tray the two teenagers were sharing. "Royal flush," he said with a grin. "You have dish duty for the next month, brother. Enjoy."_

_Gilbert tossed his cards onto the table and sighed, slumping down in his chair, grumbling. "You'd make me do that?" he whined, squirming on the spot, pouting deeply, trying to look every bit the kicked puppy he more than likely felt. At this, Matthew had to stifle his giggle lest he offend his lover._

"_Yes, yes I would," Ludwig said simply, still looking smug as he stood, stretching lazily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going out for a little while. I should be back by about one." He gave Matthew a firm squeeze on the shoulder as he left the dining room, grabbing his sweater from the back of an arm chair as he went. The back of it was emblazoned with their school's coat of arms, his last name and his jersey number - the teenager, who had the build of a human Soviet tank, was a quarterback on their school's football team. _

"_I guess that means I have to drive you. Ah, Scheiße," their father muttered darkly. "Might as vell." Mr. Beilschmidt stood with a grunt, tousling the youngest in the room's hair as he went, grabbing the keys and following his youngest son out the door, calling back over his shoulder that he would return later and for them to refrain from burning down the house or poisoning the neighbour's cats. And, of course, he was followed out the door by the family dog, a heavy-set German Shepherd that just so happened to think it was the ultimate lapdog, not a fully grown male animal the weighed almost a hundred pounds. _

_And so the two of them, Matthew and Gilbert, sat in silence for a little while longer, the former staring at the table and the latter at the wall. Neither of them wanted to break the fragile quiet that had formed, the two content to be sat in the presence of the other, knowing full well that they did not require words. So all they did was occasionally brush their fingers across the other's hand, glance at one another and smile, remaining silent the entire while._

_There were times that the Canadian found himself wondering why Gilbert, the handsome eighteen-year-old that he was - exuberant, loud, obnoxious and 'awesome', as he would declare boldly for all to hear - took interest in a fifteen-year-old that was too shy and introverted for his own good. Sure the guy had been Matthew's first friend when he had been enrolled in the private, catholic school, but just friends and dating were two completely different concepts. They both knew that there were plenty of girls and even a few guys that wanted to date him, and the youth found it somewhat mind-boggling that, nine months ago when he was still just fourteen and he seventeen, Gilbert had shown up at his doorstep, stumbling over the words he had spent three hours choosing to use to ask him out with. And what had been even more amazing was the fact that the semi-albino teen seemed to be more than willing to take all the baggage he came with, and then some._

_Baggage such as an incredibly livid Canadian mother when she found out that her son was dating a _guy _that was three years older than him. It was the guy part that had done it for her, though._

_Taking him by the hand with a sigh, Gilbert stood, hauling Matthew up slowly as if to keep him from getting too dizzy and stooped somewhat to bring their lips together in a soft, gentle kiss, his blue eyes hazy as he pulled back only a little bit. He looked sad despite the tiny smile that played across his pale lips. "You had me worried when you fell asleep there earlier," he murmured against the other's mouth, eyes heavily lidded. He brought their lips together in another kiss, this one a little more heated than the first one and when they pulled apart a pleasant shiver travelled through the Canadian's body and he licked his tingling lips._

_Wrapping his arms around the German's middle and still managing to keep the blanket wrapped firmly around his frame, Matt buried his nose in his boyfriend's neck, shutting his eyes and making an apologetic humming noise. Strong arms wrapped around him, keeping his body pressed tight to the one he was resting against. Whatever it was that had driven Gilbert to ask him out despite their age difference, he was damn well thankful for it; he would have considered offing himself several months ago if it weren't for the German's stubborn resilience in taking care of the younger when things got a little too rough for him to handle; in making the younger talk despite not wanting to; despite when he thought it was stupid and pointless. _

_A guardian angel indeed._

"_I'm sorry," he said quietly, a bark of startled laughter leaving him as he was scooped up into the other's arms, being cradled in a way so that his arms were draped over his shoulders, legs at the German-American's waist. "I would have tried to stay awake, but at the moment sleeping just seemed like such a better option."_

_A soft kiss, a mumbled 'alright', and he was carried into his boyfriend's bedroom. After being placed on the bed despite the grumbled 'I can do that myself, Gilbert; I'm not an invalid', the blankets were tucked firmly around him. Stretching lazily and ruffling his hair as he crossed the room, Gilbert toed his bedroom door shut, revealing a poster of a popular Salvador Dali painting: the one with the melting clocks whose name Matthew couldn't remember for the life of him. _

_His boyfriend flopped down onto the carpet with a yawn, stretching as he reclined backwards onto his elbows, skimming a finger across the spines of his movie collection. "Wanna watch a movie?" Gil asked, looking up at his boyfriend, the tiny youth curled up on his bed, from his spot on the floor. He grinned. "I just picked up a copy of Fahrenheit 9/11 the other day if you want to check that shit out. I would so bend over for Michael Moore, by the way."_

_Matthew laughed loudly at that and nodded, propping himself up somewhat - at least his head didn't spin as badly with each movement he made. "Sounds good to me," he murmured, watching as Gilbert hauled off his shirt and pants, reaching for a pair of lounge pants and hauling them on before he popped the DVD into the player, turning on the television as he did so. A dull blush formed on his cheeks as he tried not to stare at the toned expanse of the other's bare, pale chest. Of course, he failed. Miserably. White-blue eyes met with his and they shared a smile. "You want something to eat or drink, Birdie?"_

"_Sure," Matthew said with a small yawn, stretching lazily. "Doesn't matter what it is; I'm hungry enough to eat anything right about now."_

_At this, a coy, lewd smile appeared on Gilbert's face. "Anything?" he purred gently, winking at the blonde that squeaked and had turned a delicious shade of red. Laughter bubbled out of him and he turned to leave the room. "I'll get us some chips and popcorn. Is Pepsi alright?"_

_The teen curled in the bed chirped a pleasant 'yes' once he felt his cheeks cool off - Gilbert always managed to have that effect on him, for the love of crap, despite having done plenty of unmentionable things with him (and in some of the oddest places, at that) - and did his best to stay awake until he returned with what would be more than enough food to feed a small army. And it was a hard task, considering how good the older teen's bed smelt (like Old Spice, cigarettes, and the peppermint candies the German-American favoured), and how comfortable it was against his stiff body. He snuggled down deep into the blankets, a dumb smile on his face, barely noticing it when Gilbert pressed play on the movie and got into the bed as well. He only truly noticed it when noise from the television filled the room and Gilbert squirmed slightly, moving himself so that he could mould his body against the younger's back, feathering gentle kisses along the nape of his neck lovingly, protectively. After a moment he was urged to turn over, fingers tickling the base of his spine being the ultimate cue. _

_With a sigh and a slight giggle as his back arched from the tickling, Matthew rolled over in order to face the television, resting his head on Gilbert's bare chest as they started munching on the popcorn. If only he could stay here all the time, he pondered quietly, somehow managing to curl in even closer to his boyfriend, blushing when he heard the other chuckle slightly, a broad hand going to rest on his hip and doodling absent-minded spirals on his hipbone. His fingertips were grazing the toned muscles of his flat stomach. _

_If only he could stay there all the time, then maybe things would be normal._

As McKnight listened to Matthew speak, the younger man stationed in the window, unmoving during the entire half an hour of steady speaking, the psychiatrist didn't quite know how to react to what was told to him; all of it was new information, and frankly he couldn't help but feel as though his mind had been a little bit blown by some of it.

He didn't know that Matthew had been beaten by his step-father as a teen.

He didn't know that Matthew's step-father had been an alcoholic.

He didn't know that Matthew had been molested several times by said alcoholic step-father (when the man had found this out he had nearly had a hernia, much to his patient's wry amusement and slight concern).

And he most certainly did not know that Matthew was bisexual (but for some reason that didn't come across as that much of a surprise).

Rubbing his face, he watched the now-stoic blonde perched on the window seat. The young man had his head resting on the cold window, eyes vacant as he absently cleaned his glasses. There was a pained look on his delicate face, and it was streaked with tears; there had been several times throughout his monologue that he had broken down in tears and had to stop, getting up to pace the office, occasionally studying the spines of books, touching them tentatively as if to familiarize himself with the present to keep from fully regressing back into the past.

To top all that off, McKnight hadn't even expected Matthew to talk about his past in such an in-depth manner, or without having to even be prompted about it. Normally their sessions encompassed sitting there for an hour and discussing idle things, dabbling cautiously around the edges of Matthew's precarious existence as a teenager.

This day, however, the Canadian had simply sat on the edge of his desk and stared at the wall for a few moments before looking at his psychiatrist with an odd expression, something off in his tired eyes. "_I need to talk,_" was what he had said, voice wavering in a way he had never before heard, and he gave his patient the berth and then some to do so.

And here they were, two hours later, and all McKnight could say was, "Oh, my."

Matthew chuckled weakly, letting his head rest back against the book case as he looked over to his psychiatrist, a small smile on his lips. "You can say that again," he said in a low voice, running a hand through his hair. "I still have the scar there and everything, despite Mr. Beilschmidt cleaning up the wound for me and bandaging it; I should have gotten stitches for it, really. But that would have been a whole new mess."

"Did you ever go to the hospital for any of your injuries?" McKnight inquired tersely, all the while wanting to meet this Jason so he could batter so that he resembled a rainbow. If only Gilbert's father could have beaten him to it - hah, that's a pun - and brutalized the shit clean out of the bastard. It had been quite some time since he had been subject to such vengeful, vindictive thoughts, but the psychiatrist decided that there was no time like the present than to have them, and this particular present seemed to very appropriate for them.

"Only twice," Matthew said with an odd sort of embarrassment, "and Gilbert had to sort of force me the initial time. First time was because he broke my arm so I really had no choice, and the second time was when he pushed me down a flight of stairs. Actually, now that I think of it, I didn't have much of a choice there, either..."

"_He did __**what**__?"_

Matthew cringed. "It wasn't _too _serious," he said lamely, running a hand through his hair, pulling on the ends and letting the curls bounce with a look of what could be considered amusement in his haunted eyes. "I only broke my collar bone, my shoulder and my ankle…" He quailed beneath the scalding hot look he was given. "Yeah, Gilbert nearly blew a gasket when he heard about it, too; he was attending Penn State at the time, and this was after we had broken up, but he still left partway through the semester to come and stay with me at the hospital for a week. I told my mom and the doctors that I simply slipped on some water on the stairs. They bought it, too."

Despite knowing he had to keep it utterly professional (and to an hour time limit, but the hell with that now), McKnight sighed, slumping down in his desk, tipping his head backwards in order to stare at the ceiling. "I'd ask you more about your step-father," he said darkly, "but for one, I don't want to learn any more about him for today, to be honest. I think I might just blow a gasket myself. So, I'll just ask you a question or two about Gilbert. Do you mind terribly?"

"I don't mind at all," the Canadian said demurely with a slight nod.

"How long did you two date for?"

Swinging one of his legs, he was silent for a minute. And then, Matt spoke: "Ah, almost a year and a half. It was about a month after my sixteenth birthday when we broke up, and the only reason we did was because Gilbert got accepted into a medical program at Penn State, and he didn't want to put me through a long-distance relationship at such a young age." The speaker shrugged in a nonchalant manner. "I was willing to stay dating him, but for some reason he knew me better than I did myself, so I accepted it. He left for Pennsylvania at the end of August, so we had been separated for a month by that time. And, well, he was right; it made splitting up a lot easier."

McKnight nodded slowly, thinking '_smart kid'_ with a sort of approval. "So, I take it you two still remained on good terms, even through that month?"

"Oh, definitely," Matthew said with a grin. "We still hung out all the time, we just didn't have anything, well, binding us together, I guess you could say. No commitments. I know I didn't date anyone until he left, and I think he was there for about two semesters before he tried going out with anyone. It was kind of cute, actually; we were talking over MSN, I think it was, and it was like he sort of asked my permission to go out with this chick. Funniest thing ever, but adorable."

Unable to help the chuckle that left him, McKnight found himself smiling. "Are you two together now?"

There was a pause as Matthew seemed to debate how to answer this. Then, finally, he shook his head 'no'. "We're not interested in each other like that anymore," he said softly. "He's my best friend, and frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way, as fucking cheesy as that sounds. However, there are times when we, ah, well … y'know. Do … _stuff_." As he spoke, his cheeks started to turn a very interesting shade of red and he squirmed, laughing awkwardly.

McKnight felt his own cheeks turn red, and he snorted, rubbing at his brow. "You two still sleep together?" he asked bluntly, causing his patient to splutter with embarrassment.

"Yeah yeah, you could say that," came the mumble that made the psychiatrist laugh out-right. "It's not very often, though; we're both busy. I have my two and a half jobs, he has a job and he's in his final year of art school."

A frown creased McKnight's aging face and he edged forward in his desk, peering at the young man with a sort of curiosity. "I thought you said he was going to med school when you two broke up?"

"You're right; he was," Matthew said, nodding. "But then he got bored and decided having to do autopsies and put up with gouts of blood day in and day out was distinctly 'unawesome' so he dropped out - much to his father's rage - and enrolled in art school. He's doing photography, visual art and filming. And he's actually working on a documentary right now, and the crazy bastard is hellbent on getting it into one of those film festivals."

Sighing and stretching, the fifty-seven-year-old man nodded slowly. "You two sound like you would make excellent partners in crime," he said with a tiny bit of amusement, grinning wryly at the Canadian curled up on the window seat.

Laughter that was soft. "We were excellent partners in crime, indeed," Matthew said quietly. "Still are, actually. It's not a party without Gilbo, that's for sure."

After that there was a lag in their conversation, Matthew staring out the window, mouth shut and McKnight seated at his desk, scribbling down some notes on his patient's current progress. It was finally starting to look positive again, which he found to be quite the relief, although he would not say that out loud to the boy.

Glancing up and over, he sighed. "Well, we've been here well over two hours now," McKnight said as he glanced at the clock on the wall. "So I think this will make for a good end to our session for the day. What do you think?"

"That's fine by me," Matthew said as stood, stretching lazily, yawning as he did. "Sorry to have taken up so much of your time, Doc."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize; we've made quite the bit of progress today. When something like that happens, I don't really want to stop you mid-sentence and push you out of my office."

A scowl formed on the younger's face. "That makes me feel like a mercurial science experiment or something."

"Ah, but you're my favourite mercurial science experiment," Ian McKnight said fondly, patting the boy on the shoulder as he stood and accompanied him to the door of his office. The other snorted, still scowling lightly but with far less severity than originally. "Are you still coming over for Christmas Day and Boxing Day?"

"Course I am," Matthew chuckled. "I might be a little hung-over though; Gilbert, his dorm mate and I are getting together Christmas Eve, playing video games and jamming for most of the evening."

Chuckles. "I'll tell my wife to have her hangover cure at the ready, just to be on the safe side."

Matthew gave him another smile as he left the office, pulling his sweater down over his head, knocking his glasses askew as he did. He saluted his doctor.

"That's the best thing you've ever come up with, Sir. Best thing ever."

_

* * *

_

So… that was … um … _long_. I promise I will not write another chapter that is over 13k words unless I have a very good reason to do so, because Jesus H. Christ that was actually painful. My fingertips are crying and I actually feel slightly bad about having to write a scene like that with Matthew. So many creative liberties, too. Baw. I can't believe I got that out in a week, either. This is madness, children.

Madnesssss.

Anyway, for all of those who guessed, the cop was, indeed, Switzerland! But because I'm a sucker and if you're reading this it meant you just sat through that entire fucking soap opera I spewed out, so you _all _can have some goddamn brownies. -hearts- Just don't ask about that random part at the beginning with Alfred. It has absolutely no place being there, but it gives me a bit of a basis for the next chapter - WHICH IS ALSO THE CHRISTMAS EVE CHAPTER YAAAY EVERYBODY DAAANCE~

(I would have put a warning at the beginning of the chapter for the, ah, content, but I'm a DICK and I'm against censorship and therefore that means you have to suffer through EVERYTHIIIING I write without knowing what's going to happen in advance, like you would an actual novel. Har de fucking har. I love you guys forgive meeeee ;_; I'm also a sucker for Prucan, in case you couldn't tell, herpderp)

Thank you so so so much for all those reviews and all the faves/alerts/whatever. They mean tons to me. -hearts- Until next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE.  
**_T'was the night before Christmas, and Matthew and Gilbert got really, really drunk.  
__Alfred, on the other hand, just got really, really high.  
__Like, __**really**__ high. I mean, there's something really wrong with this scenario…_

Life is a fragile sort of thing. It's given as a gift (or a curse; it all depends on the eyes of the beholder), and then you get to chill out with this gift for a little while, whether you like it or not, when it's just ripped out all fast-like from beneath your feet. Sometimes there's a warning given - you know, terminal illness, a kamikaze dump truck at the intersection of Main and Water Street where your car conveniently stalled out on you - and then sometimes there's no warning at all. It just gets taken from you like that. The snap of a finger, the flick of a wrist. And it's gonzo. It's precious, delicate, and there are days when you just want to throttle the mother and father that gave it to you and ask them why they were such sadists towards a poor, defenceless child that never did shit to them.

Some people live life with the motto that follows: Live hard, die young. And then there are the people that are stressed all the time, the people that can't tell up from down and, well, they don't really care to. And then, finally, there are those that take their time, meander through it all at a serene pace to take in all the surroundings. These different perspectives belong to different sorts of people. Some are socialites with high-paying jobs, while some are at the other end of the spectrum altogether: anti-social nobodies that can barely make ends meet.

And that, friends, is life in several little nutshells with minimal perspectives given, just a simple, blunt explanation. It's all you need, really; that sort of thing you can take and run with. So why not do that and formulate your own reasons and outlines?

As for Alfred Jones, born in Lowell, Massachusetts and raised in Manhattan by a technology giant and his stunning wife who walked runways all over Europe, is an individual in the first group named, and for a very obvious reason. He inherited his father's intelligence and ability to talk circles around others, and he got his looks from his mother, and he spent his life being inherently spoiled by both of them - so it was only an eventuality that he should end up like the both of them with a few self-destructive, lascivious hobbies.

Snow was falling outside in fat, fluffy flakes, and the city was barely coming to life, the veins of traffic moving at a sluggish pace, traffic beginning to thicken already despite how early in the morning it was. As for the man awake at this hour despite not having to work, he observed it all with a bird's eye perspective, not really caring for those beyond the glass but simply for himself and his own affairs. It was cold in his condo, bitterly so, but that was how Alfred liked it at seven in the morning; it helped him wake up. He needed it to be that cold in the morning, really. Coldness pulled him face-first from a groggy state of mind with the utmost ease, quicker than what an alarm clock or a cup of coffee could ever do for him. It revitalized his senses, and it made him a whole lot more aware of what it was he was in the process of doing.

Right now, it was preparing his four lines of cocaine for his morning dose, and something like that needed the utmost concentration.

Bag of decadent white powder set beside him on the kitchen table, Alfred was perched on a chair, a large mirror set down before him and a small straw. In one hand he held a clean, fresh razor blade (he generally disposed of them after each use, you have to give him at least a little bit of credit) and in the other a table spoon. This was, perhaps, the most boring part of his fucked-up idea of a good time. Sighing, he opened the bag of coke, dipping the spoon in and dumping the powdery white substance down onto the mirror, using his thumb to wipe the remaining residue from the piece of silverware, licking it from his skin once he was finished. Twisting the bag and then setting it to the side, the lawyer set to work, a grim look on his face as he picked up the razor blade.

Scraping the drug into four separate lines, humming softly beneath his breath a tune that sounded like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (what the fuck, Alfred), he used the razor to keep them apart from each other and in straight rows, located on the center of the looking glass. They were long and white, and the American sighed at the sight of it. It was hard to tell what he was feeling just by looking at him, however; his face was a perfectly blank slate, void of any emotion, be it anticipation or regret at what he was about to engage in.

Setting the blade off to the side, he picked up the tiny piece of straw and twirled it absently between his fingers, deciding which line to do first. Leaning forward he chose one at random, placing the straw to one nostril while covering the over, eyes screwed shut as he quickly inhaled the substance, grimacing at the initial burn. For some reason, it was stronger than usual and he could positively feel the hairs in his nose burning. It hadn't done that for a while now; normally it was just a quick little nip, nothing that lasted past a few seconds. This, however, felt like a scalding pain, as though he were after taking a scalding hot rod and twirling it around the inside of his nostril, burning the inside as he went.

That should have been the first clue to set the alarms off in his head.

But, based upon the fact that he's a stubborn mule's bottom, he simply pressed forward again and inhaled the remaining three lines in a rapid succession, eyes watering at the corners as he rested backwards against the chair, just waiting for the drug's effects to kick in.

After waiting for several minutes, he frowned thoughtfully, eyes hazy and he scratched at his temple with a shaking hand. The drugs hadn't kicked in yet. Odd. Very, very odd. He leant forward and picked up the bag, staring at it with a harsh stare and groaned, slamming it back down on the table. His new dealer, a temporary one and one he was never going to go to for anything ever again, had given him a bag of impure cocaine; he could tell it by the pale shade of yellow that permeated the usually pristine white powder, and the fact that it looked to be thicker than what it normally was. Oh, fuck him up the ass with a rake. It was probably after being cut with baking soda or something ridiculous like that. Well, better than it being cut with meth, but still. _Baking soda_!

Come _on._

So, obviously displeased with the results his drug consumption had garnered, Alfred did what was the most logical thing: he prepared three more lines. He dumped another levelled table spoon of the pure white powder - well, it wasn't pure, but it was goddamn white enough - onto the mirror, he repeated the process and scraped them into three separate lines. They were longer than the other ones, and he cringed slightly when he realized that, if he tried, he could probably make a fourth line. Oh well, not much he could do now. Might as well consume, something he was born to do according to his parents.

He did all this because, well, the man is a fucking genius, of _course_. Something like that just goes left unsaid (and if you say that to Matthew, he just might have an aneurism from laughing so hard).

Snorting the extra three lines, one right after the other with a minimal amount of time taken between each dose despite the brutal burn that came with it, he tossed down the straw and relaxed backwards once again, sighing heavily, sniffing and grimacing at the searing feeling he experienced briefly after finishing it. Then he stood, feeling restless as he made his way out of the kitchen and into his living room, where he flopped down in an arm chair that he had positioned so that it overlooked Manhattan. Beside it was his sleek, black baby grand piano, a gift his father had given him despite the fact that he never learned how to actually play it. He'd need to get rid of it someday; it was only taking up useless space after all. Or was that useful space? Space was supposed to be useful, right? Unless space had some sort of anti-thesis. Then that would just be, like, reverse space and shit, which was totally awesome. It was like the anti-matter of free space. Or, like, the Final Frontier of the Living Room of Awesomely American Justice and Shit. Cause that was space, right? Or maybe it was a different kind of space. Either way it was totally awesome and shit.

No sooner than two minutes later and the effects of the drugs hit him - the tell tale signs were already there: the disjointed, loopy thoughts, the dumb smile that was starting to form on his face. The fact that he was giggling like a preadolescent girl also gave it away, too. The fact that he suddenly felt as though he had some sort of power over every other thing in his apartment, or the whole damn complex for that matter.

And good God, did the lines ever hit him hard. Being squished under the path of an on-coming Mack would have nothing on it.

Fucking hell, he felt so amazing, though. It had been seven months since he had felt the euphoric sensations of cocaine like this, seven months since his first time trying the drug, and he knew from reading and other people's stories that he would never experience it again. That one high would be lost forever and all other ones were simply shitty replicas whose dosage he would need to up every three or four months. And here it was, back with him and Alfred just did not want to ever let it go. Never ever ever.

This, however, had him feeling light-headed, dizzy and absolutely incredible. His initial time trying cocaine was nothing compared to this trip. Cocaine the first time around wasn't even as good as this. If anything, he felt as though he were on top of the world, like he was capable of doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and however he wanted to do so. There was no stopping him. He ran a hand through his hair, eyes fluttering shut and a self-satisfied smirk upon his face as he stretched out languidly as he lurched across the room and into the back of the apartment, where the windows were, the feeling of blissful completion leading to a sedate feeling that wormed its way into his muscles and started to make itself at home.

All he could do was sink into the arm chair he had managed the lever himself into, stretched off in nothing more than pyjama pants and a black, unzipped sweater hanging loosely around his body. His head of blonde hair flopped back lazily, lolling slightly to the side and he gave a lazy grin, directing it at nothing in particular. With the same sloth-like behaviour, he trailed his fingertips along his flat, toned stomach, staring at the ceiling. Which was totally looking awesome, like the rest of the things in his apartment.

"This is so-ho-_ho_ _awesome_," Alfred practically slurred as the drugs worked on addling his brain altogether, trying to remain seated in the chair as it felt like his limbs were beginning to turn into liquefied jelly. The lack of coordination and the heaviness of his body parts were beginning to work against him despite his fiercest efforts to remain stationary. It was at failing attempt, and he slipped from it and flopped onto the floor, his bottom landing squarely on cold wood as he let his head flop backwards onto the seat. He lacked even the energy to lift his head up; the drugs were having that much of an effect on him. He didn't even have the energy to pick himself back up to flop down into the chair.

Then, just like that, the euphoria was gone, but the sedated feeling was still there. He couldn't move, and probably would be able to, even if he tried to with some considerable effort. All of his thoughts had slowed down considerably, and when he tried to stand, his legs gave back out, forcing him to remain seated. Well, that was fine by him; not like he had anything overly important to do at the moment. Alfred ran his hand, which was violently shaking, through his hair, tugging on the locks, unable to feel anything. His breath was coming in quick, short bursts, and it felt like his heart was racing. It was an uncomfortable sensation and it felt as though he were going to fall asleep at any moment; hazed-over blue eyes were dazed, exhausted, and closed and opened irregularly. He felt like he was going to barf and, when he turned his eyes to the clock on the wall, his face went even whiter when he saw that it was almost ten o'clock in the morning.

Which meant that he had been sat on the floor for three hours, doing absolutely nothing, just riding out the very long high that came with his cocaine.

And finally, despite how clouded his thoughts were and how long it had actually taken him, the American realized that something had gone desperately wrong.

Staggering to his feet for a second time with a lot more force, lurching forward as the floor tried to come up and introduce itself to his face, he drew a shaky breath as he latched onto the piano, knees buckling beneath his weight. He dropped back to the floor, feeling his knees hitting the wood heavily, forcefully, but not feeling it at the same time. It was like someone had turned off all the nerve endings in his body, leaving him unresponsive to any sort of pain, like that might have caused. It was if someone had injected him with a lethal amount of painkillers. Morphine, Novocaine, Oxycotton, Vicodin, Demerol, Opana. Any one of those. He had done several of them, after all, so he knew their effects quite well, their beautiful analgesic qualities. It felt like it was all after being just dumped into his bloodstream without warning, without consideration.

Panic was beginning to set in at this point and Alfred forced himself back up onto his feet after what seemed like an eternity of just kneeling there, grasping onto the piano for dear life. It felt that, should he let go of the instrument, he would fall and he would never stop falling, not for a moment. As if the floor beneath him would just open up and swallow him whole and down into a thick, black void from which no one would be able to find him. Then again, it was not like there was anyone that would willingly come and search for him should it happen. Essentially the piano was saving his life, right?

Fuck that, he was keeping the damn thing after this - it had finally proven itself to be useful, which was damn well about time it had.

Groaning as he stood, he braced himself upon the piano for some time, just allowing himself to splay the upper portion of his body across the polished black surface, feeling the cold wood pressing firmly against his flushed, warm skin. God, why was he so warm all of a sudden? And was there cotton in his mouth? Someone must have gotten into his apartment and turned on the heat, full blast. Which wasn't cool; this was his apartment, which meant he controlled the climate settings, no some scary, No-Face bastard. Or maybe, he was wearing too much clothing. He stared down at himself - that couldn't be the case; only a little while ago he had been freezing cold still. Then again, a little while was three hours and the concept of time he usually had no issues with had been sent directly to jail (and it did not pass Go, and it did not collect $200). Hesitantly he tapped his foot on the floor. Solid. It wouldn't open up and swallow him - good, good. But his question had yet to be answered - why was it so warm?

He didn't know anymore and, as he slumped back down onto the floor, resting his head against the wood of the piano, he decided he didn't give two flying fucks, either. He just couldn't, couldn't bring himself that one more inch to care, couldn't get himself up off the floor to go over and check just what the hell it was that was in the bag, because there was no way it was actually cocaine. No fucking way. Everything just felt too slow, his body felt too heavy, and it felt like all he needed to do was sleep for a few hours, sleep the drugs off, and then everything would be back to normal, the way it should be. And goddamn it all, when he woke up, that bag of coke was going down the toilet. No fucking way was he trying it again, and the violent part of him, the one that never, ever showed unless provoked after several flasks of straight whiskey, was considering hiring someone to put a bullet into his temporary dealer's skull. Behind his eyelids, where it was pitch black and calming, the world was still spinning on its axis.

Blinking slowly as he decided it was time to go and turn down the heat (his body still felt like it had been shoved into a furnace, as though he were being burnt alive at this very moment), he rubbed his face before opening his eyes, jolting violently back into awareness, finding himself lying in his bed.

This was unusual, considering the last thing he remembered was being sat down by that stupid piano…

"How di-"

"Ah, took you long enough to wake up, Jones."

Yelping and jolting backwards at the deep, male voice in his room, Alfred's bloodshot blue eyes went wide and he shrank back, shivering violently beneath the thick, warm blankets on his bed. Maybe the blankets were why he was so warm. Or was he cold now? He felt his skin and felt how it boiled beneath his touch, but for some reason he was shivering as though he were in the Arctic in only his underwear. Yes, yes, he must be cold. "Ch-Chris?" he croaked out, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Wh-What're you-"

"Shut up and drink some water," 'Chris' said, peering down at the bedridden lawyer with cold amber eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed with a critical, cold expression. Alfred recoiled beneath it, a whimper being trapped in his lungs. "Next time I break in here after half an hour of knocking and doorbell-ringing, and find you passed out in the living room, covered in your own vomit, I'm leaving you there to die, alright Jones? We are not friends, so-"

"So why're y'doin' this?" Alfred spat back, equally vicious despite how his head spun in lazy circles. Fuck, the ceiling needed to stay in one spot, and Chris needed to put that extra head on his shoulders away. He was ugly enough as it was; two faces to look at was just a horror movie. That and it was going to make him puke. For the second time, apparently.

The other's lip twitched in a restrained snarl, and then he shook his head, smirking wryly. There was a cold look in his eyes, one that Alfred was not unfamiliar with. It wasn't that they hated each other - they had the same circle of friends, they frequented the same bars - it was more or less an employment rivalry. Anything that the lawyer had the upper hand on that his intern didn't pissed the other off to no foreseeable end, and there were times when their childish competitiveness went beyond the boundaries of just the workplace. As he shook his head, his mane of curly black bobbed with the movement. Then, for some reason, his gaze softened, throwing the bedridden American off-kilter - now _that _look was uncharted territory. "Cause your precious big brother would murder me if I let you overdose yourself, now wouldn't he?"

"Go back to Harvard, join a frat and be an excuse of an adult for just a week. See how it is, learning all the ins and outs of it," Alfred snapped, feeling his speech clarify with each word he spoke and as his tongue shed some pounds, bringing himself up into an upright position. He was immediately shoved back down by Chris' hand, earning a scowl. His next words were venomous and filled with a potent sarcasm, one that made the younger intern wince: "Then you'll _understand _the _appeal_."

"No, no I won't," Chris DePaulo, Alfred's assistant criminal lawyer, said tersely. "Cause someone here has to be responsible for you, too, as pathetic as it is. And not everyone needs to overindulge and drown themselves away from the rest of the world."

The American simply glared in return despite how the words were akin to a blow to the gut. Drowning himself, was he? Oh, how eloquently put. His scathing look was returned with a level gaze and Alfred puffed his cheeks, looking away and rolling onto his side, massaging his forehead as his eyes fluttered shut. He couldn't focus on any one thing for too long; his eyes felt as though they were roasting in their sockets and there was a tension headache beginning to form at the base of his skull, pulsating heavily as it got progressively worse and worse. God, he felt so sick. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he bit back a groan as he rested his forehead upon the knees that were level with his collar bone. A hand rested on his shoulder, and the lawyer tensed beneath it.

"Alright, in all seriousness, are you okay?" Chris asked, voice genuinely thick with concern.

For a long moment, he just lay there, the other's words ringing in his head. What a good question: _was _he okay? The answer was no, never. But he did not say that, would not say that, for that was weak. Weakness. A kryptonite he did not like. "I don't know," Alfred muttered finally, evasively, wiping some sweat from his skin, shudders passing steadily through his frame. His skin was slick and he felt like he had been submerged in an ice bath despite the fact that, when he touched his forehead, the flesh there was scalding hot. He wanted to bury himself alive. "I feel sick. Like, really fucking sick."

"Well, what happened? Should I take you to the hospital or something?"

Alfred decided he was simply imagining the increasing worry in the intern's voice.

"Oh God, _fuck _no. They'll do drug tests and I'll be fucked over like Pamela Anderson with Kid Rock in a porno. Maybe even more than that," he groaned, burying himself in even further despite feeling so cold, warm and sticky all at once. Poking his head back up for a brief moment, he glanced over at the clock - it was four o'clock in the afternoon. Evening? He tried not to curse, but failed. "I did too much cocaine because at first I thought it was cut with baking soda; there was no effect to it whatsoever. But then after I did seven lines instead of four, I started to feel even higher than usual. When the initial feeling wore off, some of it stayed around and then I kind of realized that, after three hours had passed and I didn't even notice it, that something was kind of wrong."

"Like you would," Chris mumbled, sighing heavily. He stood, scratching his round stomach - the product of too much beer and too many hot dogs - before stretching. "Way to overdose yourself, Alfred. Way to go. You're a real star pupil, you know that?" He sighed again, shaking his head ruefully. "Where did you leave it to?"

"Kitchen table; never had a chance to clean up after m'self," Alfred said quietly, feeling his eyelids growing heavy again, as if sleep was going to take him back into its arms once more. Before he could fall back to sleep, a hand roughly shook him awake. His eyes opened sluggishly and he made a whining noise in the back of his throat.

"Stay awake," his student intern hissed, glaring angrily at the semi-conscious, still possibly drugged, lawyer. "And I'll be back in a few. I just want to get the bag and bring it up here."

Alfred simply groaned and rolled onto his front, leaving Chris to whatever it was he wanted to do with the (not) cocaine.

The only thing that was running through his mind, the one thing that was keeping him conscious, was the unease he was feeling about the fact that he had overdosed himself. God, imagine the shit it would have caused if it had killed him. For one, Arthur would probably go off his rocker. And not in a good way, if there was a good way to go off one's rocker, that is. His father would have a field day trying to cover up his death, protect his family's 'prestigious' reputation. Then there was Matthew an-

He stopped his thoughts there because he knew Matthew probably wouldn't give a sweet shit about what happened to him, whether it was good or bad.

Feeling a weight settle down on the edge of his bed, Alfred turned his head, despite the fact that it felt like a chunk of lead, in the direction of the extra weight. Chris sat there with the bag of powder in his hands, an odd look on his face. He was passing it from one hand to the other, studying it was a sort of anxiety mingled with simmering ire on his face.

Frowning, propping himself up onto his elbows and cringing at the way the world tilted slightly, he ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. Maybe he should have just stayed lying down. "What's up?"

"How could you _not _tell that this isn't cocaine, Jones?" Chris asked in a cold, harsh voice.

"It was seven in the morning," he groaned, flopping back down and burying his face down amongst the pillows. Fucking hell he knew it. "It's hard to tell anything at that time in the morning, especially when all you want is to get really fucking high and you're not wearing your glasses."

"Well, would you like to know what it is, Sherlock?"

"Do enlighten me, Watson."

"You could stand for a little more than enlightenment, I can tell you that right now," the man spat, throwing the bag at the exhausted man's face, where it collided with a heavy 'thump'. It was received with a startled yell and a mumble of incoherently-worded pain. "That there is 95% smack cut with coke - you can tell by the colour and texture, and the weight of it. Not coke cut with baking soda, like you thought it was. My cousin used to do this exact stuff. It killed him, too. Good stuff, right? Congratulations, you are the ultimate fuck-up. Wear the badge with pride."

Alfred positively balked, running his hand down over his face, trying to ignore how murderous the amber-eyed man's voice had gotten, how arctic it had become. "Jesus fuck. Cocaine-laced heroin. That's fucking marvellous. Well, at least my dealer got the cocaine part right."

Chris shook his head, expression blank. "Alfred Jones, the eternal optimist. You're a real trooper, aren't you?" His voice was devoid of anything as he stood, looking distinctly unimpressed with the man lying in the bed. "Anyways, I got what I came for - that USB port with all the case files that you did up for me out of the goodness of your crooked little heart - and I have some water and ginger ale placed down by your bedside. Some crackers, too, so you don't starve. And, to your right, is a bucket in case you need to puke. I don't recommend getting up until tomorrow sometime because it'll take another four or five hours for it to have completely worn off, and by that time, you won't want to get out of bed. And, in case I don't talk to you tomorrow, Merry Christmas."

There was silence for a moment, the two men just watching each other as wary and weary as two battle-hardened men with sniper rifles, and then a heavy sigh left the bedridden individual. "Yeah, Merry Christmas."

This was going to be one to remember.

* * *

Wandering down a hallway that smelt distinctly of art supplies, studying walls that had been painted and written on, Matthew sighed sadly, pausing in his steps to trail his fingers across the wall as he studied the art school graffiti with a critical eye, lips tugged into a firm frown as he assessed the image. It was a beautiful painting; he decided somewhat wistfully, a dejected look upon his face as he trailed his fingers along the long-since dried paint coating the walls above a layer of Gesso. He felt his eyes burning and he swallowed back against the lump that had risen in his throat at the same time, a choked whimper sounding in his chest. This was unfair. Un-fucking-fair; he was supposed to be here, too, with all these people as an art student. Not living by himself as the ultimate nervous wreck. He was supposed to have one part time job, a hangover every Sunday and paint covering every piece of clothing he owned. He was supposed to be normal, in love at this point (maybe; that was an optional sort of thing) and he was supposed to have a kitten and a microwave that he could use and not worry about it either exploding or poisoning him. He was supposed to smile without his face feeling like it was going to cramp up, he was supposed to laugh and find joy in the littlest, stupidest things, and he was supposed to be able to sleep in until at least eleven before doing anything. Too much to ask for, apparently.

And then he felt arms wrap around his waist and a chin rest upon his shoulder, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin with a loud gasp. "What have I told you about moping, Birdie? It makes you unattractive."

When the arms released him, Matthew whirled around and then immediately relaxed, a noise of relief leaving his lips. His heart was still racing in his chest. "Don't _do _that, Gilbert," he grumbled with a slight pout upon his lips, eyes narrowed into slits as he shifted on the balls of his feet, folding his arms and looking all the more childish.

Gilbert, with both a guilty and smug look in his eyes, ducked his head. "Sorry," he mumbled, grabbing the younger's hand and tugging him down the hall, a small smile on his lips. "I take it you've forgone your meds for the day on account of the occasion?" he teased.

Matthew nodded vigorously, grinning dumbly. "Damn right; I'm feeling pretty fine, too. Just a little jumpy, but nothing _too_ serious," he said, following the shorter man into his room, adjusting the packages he carried under the crook of his arm, fitting them snugly beneath his armpit. "And I have 'em with me so I can take them first thing when I wake up in the morning."

Nodding and smiling Matthew was tugged further on, and they travelled a little further down the hall, his hand still being held by the shorter Prussian-American's own, colder one. Gilbert greeted students as they went, laughing and chatting on occasion, and at one point accepted a large bottle of what appeared to be some kind of Jamaican rum from another student as a good-will present for the holidays. Matthew trailed silently behind him, watching from afar without a word, smiling only when eyes were turned in his direction and speaking only when spoken to. It seemed his friend picked up on this immediately and a frown formed on his face, but neither of them said anything about it, simply pulled one another in the direction of the dorm room Gilbert resided in.

Pushing the door open a little unceremoniously, the American spread his arms out wide. "Welcome to my humble abode, my fair Maiden of the Great White North."

This earned Gilbert a smack across the back of the head - the first of many gifts for the Christmas season.

Flopping down onto his bed as Matt shut the room's door, Gilbert picked up his videogame controller once more, eyes immediately glued to the screen as his former boyfriend made himself easily at home, setting the two unidentified parcels down as he sat down on the floor in front of the Prussian-American. He crossed his legs and reclined against the bunk bed's wooden frame. "What are you playing?"

"F.E.A.R 2," Gilbert said distractedly, grimacing. "This shit is _so_ fucked. Not nearly as bad as the second Condemned game, but still über fucked-up. My mind is being constantly blown by it - I swear to God every time I turn around Alma is going to just ass-rape me like whoa. Like, man, I would love to work for the people that come up with these story lines. They must be a riot."

"Or all they are is just one patient short of a loony bin," Matt chuckled, elbowing the other. "Maybe you really _should _join them, Gil. I'm sure you'd blend in perfectly."

"Oh shut your _trap_," came the terse reply, followed by a yelp as the screen suddenly went all wavy and weird noise started up in the background of the game. At this, Gilbert started cursing as he bolted upright, hands tightly clenching the XBOX 360 controller. Another slew of curses followed after this when his head collided with the bunk overhead, dropping the controller as his character was brutally killed in order to cradle his skull. The only thing Matthew was able to do was laugh riotously at it, tears popping up into his eyes as the older man started berating the videogame and bunk bed in a mixture of angry German and English, using every vulgar word at his disposal.

A grumble came from the sleeping form up there, and a head of messy brown hair poked itself out. The sound caused Matthew to jolt and splutter, nearly choking on his laughter, thus prompting Gilbert to pound him on the back with a viciously pleasant smile. "_Oy vey, _you two," came the sleepy, lightly-accented voice belonging to Gilbert's Spanish roommate. "Keep it down, _por favor._"

"It almost six in the evening, Antonio," Gilbert grumbled sourly as Matthew ducked his head, looking apologetic for laughing and speaking so loudly that he had roused the slumbering man. "Your fuckin' siesta or whatever the shit it is should have terminated a few hours ago, man."

As Antonio stretched, his bare sinewy body arching up of the bed before he flopped back down with a grunt, he let out another long yawn and a string of unintelligible Spanish. Then he turned his head back to them and gave a silly, good natured smile to Matthew, winking. "There is always time for a siesta, _mi amigo. _Am I right, Mattie?"

Gilbert mouthed to the Canadian the word 'no', but all the other could do was laugh and nod, "I completely agree with that, actually." He felt his face warm slightly from the look of appraisal he was given by the Spanish film student and he quickly averted his eyes, mumbling something about having to take his sweater off because it was too warm.

Sitting back down on the floor as he tossed his sweater onto the bed, Matthew stretched his legs out and yawned, running a hand through his messy blonde locks, doing his best to finger comb the strands that seemed impossible to tame otherwise. He bit back a yelp when Gilbert's hand latched onto his wrist and his arm was jerked backwards by the art student. Turning with wide eyes to see what the hell he was doing, and so that it didn't feel like his arm was being popped out of its socket, he stared at him. "W-What are y-you doing?" he whispered, so as Antonio wouldn't hear.

He was startled when he saw how icy Gilbert's eyes were, how uncharacteristically sharp and arctic they had become. His lips were pulled into a terse line as he studied the flesh before him, running his fingers down the pale, bare skin, their tips dancing along the scars that were there. "Making sure there's nothing _new_ there," he muttered in a dark voice, not looking up at the Canadian as he did a check-up of sorts on him, "and to make sure the ones that were there are healed. Got a problem with that, Birdie?"

Numbly Matthew shook his head 'no', lips cold and words unable to pass them as he looked down in shame, feeling his eyes brimming as Gilbert gently ran his calloused fingertips along the length of his forearm once more. After a moment, when he supposed the other was satisfied with what he found there, the other arm was taken up and given the same treatment. Though he knew Gilbert was doing it simply because he was more than worried about Matthew's well-being - that much was obvious to all, even those that were as thick as the Great Wall of China and then some - it was still somewhat humiliating. To have people prying and searching his arms as though he were some mental case that could probably have a nervous breakdown and would attempt ending it at any given moment (even though he was, but that he decided to overlook for the time being) was so, so embarrassing, and no matter how concerned Gilbert was for him, no matter how close they were, it still pissed him off to some degree.

Jerking his arm out of the other's grasp, eyes narrowing dangerously, Matthew glared at the other and turned his gaze back to the television, which was on the options screen. Without even waiting for his reaction, Matt gestured to the game controller. "Might I give it a try?"

There was silence, and the Canadian turned around to give Gilbert half of a glance, feeling guilt pool in his stomach nauseatingly as he saw the saddened look on the older man's face. A sigh. "Yeah, here," he murmured. "Try not to get killed on your first try."

Antonio, who had remained perfectly oblivious to the tense exchange between the two, chirped from his bed above them, "I'm giving you five minutes before you get totally destroyed."

"Thank you for the encouragement, Tonio," Matthew deadpanned as he accepted the white, wireless device, glancing around it to get himself resituated with all the buttons; it had been a while since he had last played the damn thing. Probably several months ago, during the summer, when he had spent the Fourth of July at the Beilschmidt's place to set off fireworks, get excessively drunk and play videogames. When he thought about it, he realized that what they were doing now was essentially the exact same thing, just less Gilbert's family and a $200 pack of fireworks.

No sooner than he pressed the start button and he turned down a hallway in what appeared to be an office building, he was killed.

Matthew's jaw dropped and he let out a shrill, offended squawking sound. "Wh-what the hell was _that_?" he trilled with wide eyes, leaning forward as he made another shrill noise.

The two art students roared with laughter, Gilbert clenching at his stomach as tears rolled freely down his cheeks while Antonio nearly fell out of his top bunk.

"Sh-Shut _up_ guys!" Matthew yelled, voice cracking dangerously as he paused the game, whipping around to glare at the two offenders. His reaction only made them laugh all the more harder and he huffed, picking the twenty-four-year-old's pillow up and slugging him with it repeatedly.

Then, he glared up at the cackling Spaniard, who had a hand covering his face as he tried to stifle his laugher. It was obviously a failing, piteous endeavour. All the Canadian, who was highly insulted at this ungracious treatment of his manly manliness, could do was splutter and wave the pillow he was holding onto with a sort of maniacal rage. "Do I have to come up there and hit you, too, Speedy Gonzales?"

Holding his hands up as though in some form of a pathetic, half-assed surrender, the Spanish immigrant shook his head. "No, no. Do carry on with beating Gilbert," he snickered. "I'm sure he's enjoying himself, am I correct, _amigo_?"

Gilbert's cheeks flushed red and he scowled, reaching up with his foot and kicking the bottom of Antonio's mattress, earning him a startled yelp included with a Spanish blasphemy of sorts following closely behind it. At this, Matthew simply chuckled and turned back to face the television screen, game controller held tightly in his hands as he stared it down. There was no way in hell that that monstrosity of a bitch was going to kill him again, no fucking way in hell.

Easier said than done, however.

Ten minutes later he was dead again and Matthew officially gave up, turning around to glare at Gilbert. There was no way he was sitting through another round of that God forsaken videogame when there were several ones in the vicinity that he was actually damn good at. Like regular ol' shooter games - he was simply deadly when it came to war videogames. "Modern Warfare 2," he growled. "Now. You too, Antonio, and I'm going to kick both of your asses."

With a smirk of his own, Gilbert rolled off of the bed as Antonio climbed down from his bunk, picking up the bottle of rum that was on the dresser. He wolf-whistled, looking more than pleased with the little treasure. "Oh my, isn't _this_ a beauty," he purred, picking up the bottle and cradling it against his bare, tanned chest. "This will go well with all the other things we got for this evening, won't it?" Then, he paused: "You _do_ have the stuff, right?"

With his ass stuck up in the air and his head buried in a box that he was rooting through, trying to dig out the game the Canadian had heatedly requested for, he gave a noise of both insult and agreement. "Oh, please, are you _doubting_ me or something?" he demanded, popping his head up for a moment to glare at the offending individual. "It's not Christmas without Mary Jane or the Captain, now is it?" For a moment he stopped digging through the box and instead moved to the nearby dresser, opening the bottom drawer and skimming through the contents, which was more than likely anything _other _than clothing. Because of the variety of things that could be pulled from it - ranging from a multitude of barely-legal and completely illegal items - the bottom drawer of Gilbert's dresser had been aptly dubbed 'The Drawer of Wonder', a backwards sort of homage to the Cave of Wonder from the film Aladdin. Which was essentially a blasphemy of sorts, but it wasn't like there would be any children going through the space anytime soon, so none of them were too worried about the desecration of a child's film.

Well, at least Beilschmidt wasn't too preoccupied by it. The guy didn't have any problems with mentally scaring a few kiddies for life; their parents could totally afford the years upon years of psychiatric health care.

The Spaniard and the Canadian slapped each other a high-five as Gilbert produced three perfectly rolled joints and set them down on the top of the dresser instead of back in the Drawer of Wonder as he also grabbed the case with the game disc in it.

Crawling back over to them and flopping down, head resting on Matthew's lap (much to the petit blonde's embarrassment), he handed the game disc to Antonio, who slid it into the XBOX 360, passing over the third wireless controller to the man lying down. "Alright, so we gonna do co-op or just a three way death match?"

"Three way death match," Matthew replied immediately, smirking as he pressed the button to get into the screen, immediately scrolling down through the list to chose a map while the others went for the weapons they were going to use, trying to keep back their groans of dismay; they would rather play on Matthew's side, not on the opposite team. Because that was just an invitation to have a tea party with death and the inevitable death that would follow after it.

Hesitantly, Gilbert looked up to the Canadian. "What weapon set are you using?" he asked in a low voice, pursing his lips as he warily watched the younger man.

"Sniper set."

Antonio and Gilbert shared a long, thoughtful look. Then:

"We're so fucked, man."

"Both eloquently and truthfully put, _mi amigo._"

"So fucking fucked that it hurts my soul and makes it weep."

Matthew simply cackled and started the match.

And within ten minutes of the very first match he managed to call for a nuclear warhead to detonate, winning him the round and the bragging rights that came with it, tossing back a shot Gilbert had poured for him. The other two individuals in the room - now moping because of the defeat they had suffered - tossed back their own shots, grimacing at the burn of the straight rum.

"Shit's potent," the Prussian-American croaked out, eyes watering at the corners as he set down the crystal shot glass set his father had given him, as part of a set, for his twenty-first birthday.

"It's better when it's potent," Matthew said as he poured a second shot for himself as the new match started up, draining back the booze as he got a better grip on his controller.

This round came to a similar end, this one with Matthew of course emerging victorious as he reached the game's score limit. He smirked at the two grumbling college students, casually twirling a strand of curly blonde hair around a slim, brittle finger as he stared innocently at the television screen. "My," he said in a sweet, soft voice, smile dripping with honey and malice all at the same time. "I thought I might have been out of practice with this game. I guess not, eh?"

Grumbles followed his statement, and the smug Canadian drank back another shot, smirking as he let go of the controller. "How about I take pity on you two and let you play without me?" he asked with a soft laugh, tousling Gilbert's hair, blushing when the pale-skinned man nuzzled his hand. At this he scowled and shoved his head from his lap, standing and going over to the dresser and picking up a joint.

"Make sure you open the window while you smoke that," Gilbert said as he sat up, him and Antonio drinking back some more of the rum, motioning to the rolled weed the other held in his hand. "We'll get in shit if one of the campus mums comes around and finds our room stinking of booze and weed. Again."

Hoisting up the window, joint in his mouth but still unlit, the Canadian grabbed a sweater haphazardly from a nearby pile of clothing and hauled it down over his head. The movement caused his hair to stick off messily. Matthew straddled the frame before pushing himself out the window and landing with a hard thump onto his bottom on the metal, icy surface of the fire escape. "I'll be out here getting pleasantly stoned should anyone need me anytime soon!"

Manoeuvring his body so that he sat with his back to the cold, brick wall, Matthew extracted a lighter from the front pocket of the sweater, bringing the white Zippo up to the twisted paper end of the joint and, with the butane flame, caught the end ablaze, inhaling sharply as he did so. With light puffing motions of his cheeks, he inhaled deeply one last time before removing it from his lips altogether, exhaling lazily as his eyes fluttered shut, a satisfied smirk forming on his face. So, so good. Gilbert always bought BC weed when they were planning on smoking together, and boy oh boy, did it ever make Matthew a happy as fuck Canadian. Without opening his eyes, he brought the joint back up to his mouth, the stick tipped a little bit upwards, and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke cloud his mind.

It had been a while since he had gotten properly stoned. Too long, he decided as he took another lengthy drag on the drug, feeling his body becoming pleasantly light and airy. It had been far too long since this. Hand cupping the end of the joint to keep the slight breeze from blowing out the embers at the end of the smoke, he sighed happily yet again as he exhaled, pale gray smoke leaving his mouth in a stream of thick, swirling tendrils. He tilted his head back, the back of his skull coming lightly in contact with the wall of brick behind him.

So. Good.

Humming lightly beneath his breath, he tapped one foot lazily as he continued to smoke, eyes shut the entire time. His fingertips were growing numb now, so he shifted fingers, holding the joint with his right hand instead of his predominant left one, not quite wanting his fingers to fall off from the cold. As he did this, the humming eventually shifted to softly singing beneath his breath before turning into the full-out belting lyrics in between drags.

"_And when there's nowhere else to run, is there room for one more son? These changes ain't changing' me: the gold-hearted boy I used to be,_" he sang jauntily, practically belting the lyrics at the top of his lungs, a stupid smile upon his face as he continued his drugged attempt at serenading the two art students on the other side of the partially-opened window, "_Ye-eah, you know you gotta help me out. Ye-eah, oh don't you put me on the back burner! You know you gotta help me-"_

"Matthew!" was the shout that came from the small dorm room.

"Yeah?" he replied with a giggle, taking a final drag on the joint, hand still cupping the glowing tip despite the fact that it was no more than a tiny little stub. His mind felt wonderfully fuzzy around the edges.

"You're stoned!" it was Gilbert, of course. "Stop singing! You'll cause someone's eardrums to burst!"

Decidedly ignoring him, the Canadian stood up on the terrace of the fire escape, choosing to sing another song, this time even louder than before as he held the remaining bit of the joint between his fingers, utterly oblivious to the fact that within a few moments it was going to start burning his skin. "_Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in God above if the Bible tells you so? Now do you believe in rock' n' roll? Can music save your mortal soul? And can you teach me how to dance real slo-"_ A startled yelp mingling with laughter escaped as the back of his sweater was grabbed and yanked upon by a strong, firm hand. The butt of the joint fell from his grasp and he gave a whine of dismay, being dragged in through the open window and dumped sloppily into Gilbert's lap.

Staring up at the American, grinning, he winked coyly. "Didn't you, like, _love_ my singing?" he asked, laughing and reaching up for the other's cheeks to pinch and tug gently upon. "Cause 'm, like, so totally awesome at it and stuff."

Gilbert let out his own laugh, and he could hear the Spanish film maker in the background, joining in with his own melodious chuckles. "I'd say yes, but that would be a lie," the Prussian-American teased, tweaking the younger's nose - an act which elicited a whine of annoyance and a failed attempt at getting up. "And you always told me to tell the truth, _ja Vögelchen_?"

"Yeah yeah, whatever," Matthew murmured, fisting his hands into Gilbert's shirt in order to drag himself upright. They stared at each other for a long moment, expressions softening. He watched as colour started to rise into the art student's pale cheeks, as he licked lips that were more than likely dry. He could see his slight Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, repeatedly. He could smell his breath, a mixture of spicy rum and something akin to strawberries. He himself felt his own mouth go dry, and it was not merely an after-effect from the weed he had smoked. It was then he noticed just how close their faces were; he could feel each exhale that left the other's mouth wash over his cheeks and he knew that, should he lean forward, their lips would touch and that would be it. For both of them.

That couldn't happen, though. There was no way he could let that happen; the walls he had meticulously crafted would be immediately shattered and then that would be it: he would be dependant all over again. Before anything could happen between them at that very moment, whether or not there was another individual in the room, he crawled out of Gil's lap and crossed the floor on all fours, flopping down beside Antonio and picking up the controller, averting his eyes and avoiding his former boyfriend's sad, longing gaze in favour of focusing on the screen despite the fact that everything was blurred from the mind-hazing effects of the marijuana.

He knew damn well that Gilbert was still in love with him - had always been. And it wasn't that Matthew no longer returned the feeling - which was true, but to only a certain extent - he just didn't see the older man as the same person he had dated in high school. All he saw him as now was a friend, his best goddamn friend, and he didn't want to change that. Not this time. What they had in high school was gone, at least on his end of things, and all that was left - should have been left - was simple friendship.

But from the dejected, sullen look on Gilbert's face as he lumbered back over to the two gamers, flopping down onto the bed and picking up another shot of Spice rum, it was immediately obvious that that particular view was not shared by the other, not in the least.

Trying to handle the controller with one hand and pour himself a shot with the other, Matthew felt his stomach turn slightly. This wasn't fair; Gilbert wasn't supposed to be in love with him still. They had promised each other that they had moved on, and that when they would have sex it would simply be for reasons of simple gratification, blowing off excessive amounts of stress of for the simple basic necessity to have sex. The four-letter-word was to be banned, and it didn't matter what language it was spoken in (considering Gilbert had a penchant for reverting to German whilst engaging in acts that were more carnal in nature, something the Canadian found terribly attractive and a major turn-on), it was not to be said, in any possible scenario or variation.

It had been a year since they had last been together in that way, and all because it was then that the Canadian realized that Gilbert still harboured feelings for him on a more or less exponential level of sorts. This had happened when, right in the middle of it, Gilbert had let a soft 'I love you' slip, much to the other's dismay, shock and embarrassed pleasure. After that, they had both agreed that, well, maybe they shouldn't do that anymore. Because it would be for the better, for both of them. Looking to Beilschmidt now, he could tell that pushing themselves apart, even if only slightly, had done absolutely nothing to stave off his affections for the younger man.

And now, back to feeling like the ultimate bottom dweller, brought to you by the Discovery Channel. Good one, Matthew Williams. _Beautifully_ played, jackass. And that should be a check mate.

He did feel moderately better about himself when he managed to blow Antonio's head off his shoulders while pouring himself a drink at the same time.

("I just happen to have mad skills that improve with the more weed I smoke.")

Another few shots of Spiced Jamaican rum down the hatch, and videogames were officially given up on: Antonio had lost all hand-eye coordination, Gilbert couldn't focus on the screen without laughing and Matthew couldn't even hold the controller anymore; the effects of the weed was making the booze all the more stronger, and he felt as though he were viewing the world around him through a mucky glass. Anyway, you could only snipe someone and blow their head off their shoulders so many times before your methods of playing started getting scrutinized by two very drunk college students.

By nine o'clock the entire bottle of rum was consumed, Gilbert and Antonio had gotten properly stoned as well, and they had broken out the other various alcoholic beverages they had chosen for consumption - the rum had been a gift. A bottle of Port for the Spaniard, a small bottle of Tequila for Gilbert (which would surely be emptied by the time midnight rolled around) and a large bottle of Royal Crown Whiskey which would be consumed by the Canadian, straight and on the rocks.

Because that was just how Matthew rolled - despite being so tiny and slight, he could drink anyone under the table and out the other side while still being able to manage a few victory shots.

It was around ten when Antonio broke out the guitar and several other students, some transfers from Denmark and Norway, including one very boisterous and drunk Dane, came in and crashed their little party with more booze and their own instruments.

Flopping down on the floor, guitar in hand, Mathias - said drunken Dane that was accompanied by his tiny, ghostly companion, a Norwegian youth by the name of Teit - decided that it would be absolutely amazing if they all started singing Oasis and other 'soppy bands' - like The Beatles, Arcade Fire, and Dallas Green - as a particular Prussian-American would call them. But despite that, they did indeed start singing - even the painfully stoic and reserved Norwegian joining in, albeit hesitantly at first - all the individuals belting out the lyrics for they were all drunk to some degree until they had people yelling from both outside and down the hall to just shut the fuck up already because it was way too late to be having a party.

This was going to be one long, crazy night and to Matthew, Christmas hadn't looked this good in a while. Even the hangover was going to be amazing, and he was going to cherish every little bit of it, right down to the Cheezie-flavoured vomit that was going to accompany it.

And all the twenty-one-year-old could do was smile and laugh, feeling absolutely alive for the first time in years.

* * *

Ohmigod I'm so late with posting this chapter hnnnnng and it's still less-than-perfect in my eyes but I didn't want to leave it any longer. Ffffffff. Extra-long chapter next time around for you guys. I promise. -sobz- Work is eating my soul, and so is trying to save up for university.

More than likely there are errors all over the place, but I'm just too damn tired to check for 'em right now. And there was a giant portion of this that I cut out, too, which was supposed to encompass them singing like drunken retards. And yes, Mathias is indeed Denmark and Teit is Norway, which is my name for him considering I RP as him every now and again (Iceland, too. =3= ). But like I said, I just felt bad and cut a load of it out and just fffff.

Bad author has been bad.

I'll try to be timely when it comes to the next update.  
;_;


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN.**

"…Gilbert?"

"Yeah, Birdie?"

"I think I'm dying."

"How terribly unfortunate."

"I'm being _serious_."

"…Why's that?"

"No one should have thrown up that much without it turning to blood. I really mean that."

"And I really don't think anyone should have drunk that much without being brought into hospital to get their stomach pumped."

"_Touché_, jackass."

"Yeah, I know my ass is sexy; I hear it all the time."

Despite being so absolutely, undeniably, and fucking hung-over, Matthew somehow found the strength to pick up the pillow and smack Gilbert with it. Repeatedly. The smaller man was curled protectively around him, face buried in the nape of the Canadian's neck, arms thrown about his middle and his legs curled to fit in perfectly with the other's slim, toned legs, managing to keep both of their bodies excessively warm beneath the blankets and causing them to remain oblivious to the cold. The impact of the soft, gentle pillow caused Gilbert to snarl venomously in German and tighten his hold on the ailing Canuck, which in turn caused the one being cuddled into to gag, feeling bile rise in his throat from the added pressure on his alcohol-abused stomach.

Moaning and trying his best to keep everything down where it should be, Matthew wiggled in his grasp. "Don't hold me so _tightly_," he croaked out. "Or I'mma puke all over your shit, Gil."

Immediately the arms slackened and he gave a sigh of relief, retaking his pillow and stuffing it under his head once more and sighing, shutting his eyes. The Canadian felt Gilbert's breath ghost along the nape of his neck as he sighed heavily, burrowing back in even closer to the lithe youth as though he were intending to return to sleep.

Before he could, Matthew cleared his throat and spoke again: "What time is it?"

There was a brief shifting around, and one of the arms holding him was removed, leaving that part of his side not nearly as warm as before. "It's almost eleven in the morning." A yawn followed. "Go back to sleep for another while, please? It's not like you have to be there in an hour - didn't you tell me McKnight wanted you over for four?"

"Well, yeah," the Canadian said, making to get out of the bed. The one arm around him now tightened and pulled him back firmly against the Prussian-American. Matthew groaned, slamming his face back down onto the mattress. "But I want to get a shower and stuff."

"You can do that later," was the mumble he received in response to his whine. From how thick Gilbert's voice was, he could tell that his former boyfriend was starting to fall back to sleep - a few of the words seemed to be slurred, and he was nestling his nose back down into the soft, curly hair by his cheek. "I'll wake y'up later or somethin'."

"But you'll end up forgetting and I'll oversleep an-"

"Shu'up and go back to sleep, Matthew."

The arm snaked its way back beneath the thick blankets and he felt his body just sink into the soft, comfortable mattress, eyes fluttering shut as he gave a non-committal hum of agreement and acceptance. Everything around him was just so warm, and so soft. The blankets, the mattress, the pillows, the person he was sharing the bed with. Even the alcohol he could still feel in his system was wonderful, keeping him heated on the inside (despite the fact that it felt like his innards were waging a civil war, but that could be overlooked for the time being). Matthew sighed, burying his face back into the pillow as Gilbert curled in closer around him, sapping all the warmth from his body and simultaneously providing more than what was necessary. God, it felt so nice to just be held so closely, so firmly. Like he was wanted, and that he would never be let go of.

(_And, for the briefest of moments, he found himself wondering what Alfred's arms would feel like around him, how his body would feel from behind like that, pressed flush against the expanse of his bare skin. Would they be like Gilbert's arms, would he feel firm and strong? Or would the-_)

Body going tense, Matthew's eyes shot open, everything suddenly clear to him and his mind very wide awake and alert to everything. At the exact same time, his stomach rolled violently and he could taste last night's taco run, at two am, coming back to haunt him with a side of vodka, rum, whiskey and breezers.

Where the fuck had _that _thought come from, precisely?

Feeling the head by the base of his neck lift and vacate the area of his neck and skin, leaving the damp spot empty and cool, Gilbert propped himself up on one elbow and peered down at the tense Canadian. He looked worried beneath all the sleepiness his face and eyes still held. "You alright?" he murmured, brushing locks of messy, curly blonde hair from his flushed cheek.

Matthew shook his head 'no' and realized, a little too late, that that had been a terrible decision as his stomach suddenly started to crawl up along his oesophagus.

Oh no, no, no, _no._

Hell. Fucking. _No._

Bolting upright with a strangled 'no' to accompany the shake of the head, narrowly missing cracking his skull on the bunk above him, he rolled out of it and let his knees hit the floor first before scrambling to his feet and making an immediate beeline for the bathroom. He tripped over an empty Smirnoff flask in the process before making a nose-dive for the toilet, slamming the door shut behind him as he quite literally clung to the porcelain throne, emptying his stomach of its contents in record time. Trying to keep the gagging and retching noises to a minimum, he shut his eyes firmly, tears leaking from the corners and down over his paling cheeks. A slight cold sweat had broken out across his back as he steadily vomited all the remaining alcohol in his system. Now that he thought of it, when he lifted his head and looked around, everything still felt sort of fuzzy, like all of the booze had yet to wear off. Well, that explained why when he had woken up that everything felt so warm and cozy, even more so than usual.

He thought about the absurdity of the situation - seven hours of sleep and still waking up with a bit of a buzz remaining - and then immediately stuck his head back down into the bowl of the toilet, continuing to puke like it was what he had been born to do.

"So worth it," he moaned in between gags. "So. Fucking. _Worth _it."

Matthew had never been so happy to toss his cookies in his entire life.

This was the ultimate hangover. Last night's mission had been a complete and utter success, through and through. From what he could remember, he had made out, several times, with some absolutely gorgeous girl from Texas while they had been in the middle of (attempting) singing 'onea' by illScarlet, a song devoted entirely to getting and being stoned. And they also learned that Antonio played some pretty amazing bongos, too. Which was very appropriate of course, when considering the occasion and all. And then after that he had gotten several phone numbers, out-drank the Danish student Mathias and learned how to speak bits and pieces of terribly pronounced Norwegian from Teit. After learning how to call several individuals he knew some very choice (and inappropriate) names in both Norwegian and Danish, everything was a bit of a blur - by that time he had already finished off an entire bottle of whiskey and was moving onto a single bottle of Bacardi. Some more making out with very pretty women ensued, and that essentially was the evening until three-thirty in the morning rolled around and the alcohol in his stomach suddenly decided it wanted out.

Like now, really. It was just everything that was leftover that wanted out. Along with those devastatingly good tacos that they had consumed.

Leaving the bathroom after washing his face over several times and brushing his teeth four times obsessively, the ailing Canadian groaned as he staggered back over to the bottom bunk and flopped back into it. He curled in on his side in the original spot he had come from, Gilbert resuming his curled position around his former boyfriend with a sigh.

"Feeling any better after your little escapade with the porcelain goddess?" he asked softly, laughing lightly as he nuzzled the other's neck gently. Arms snaked their way back around his middle, locking in place in front of his flat abdomen, and the Canadian just felt his body sink even deeper into the mattress; vomiting for so long had reduced him to an exhausted state of mind once more, his body feeling useless and unbelievably heavy.

All Gilbert received as a reply was a pained groan and a 'shut the fuck up, you goddamn hoser because I'm going back to sleep.'

They remained that way until almost two-thirty in the afternoon, having fallen back into a deep slumber, the alcohol finally leaving their systems as they slept. When Gilbert's cell phone started to vibrate beneath the pillow, the older woke up first, grumbling as he tried to bury himself deeper into Matthew's thin, warm body. This movement only succeeded in waking up the younger. Stretching lazily and yawning, the Canadian rolled over to face Gilbert, giving him a lazy, sleepy smile as he stretched again. He quietly wished him a Merry Christmas, nuzzling their noses together for a brief moment.

"What time'sit?" he mumbled, hazy eyes barely open as he watched the Prussian-American grumble and curl back in on himself, screwing his eyes shut and muttering blackly beneath his breath in rapid German.

Groaning and lazily smacking the older man's shoulder, Matthew rolled out of the bed and onto his feet, stretching as he stood, back arching a little. Groping for his glasses, he located them on the dresser and shoved them on, blinking rapidly as the world came back into focus. He yawned. While we was still hung-over - the nausea still lingered, his head pounded and it felt like something had crawled into his mouth and had died there - he didn't feel nearly as terrible as when he had first woken up. After a moment, when he finally noticed the chill in the bedroom's air, he reached for his sweater and pulled it down over his bare torso.

"Way to kill the view, jackass," Gilbert groaned from his spot on the bottom bunk.

"Aye,_ el chico es muy guapo, ¿Verdad?_" Antonio purred loudly from above him as his friend replied in kind with a string of German that ended with a loud wolf-whistle.

Dirty, bilingual bastards.

For a long moment that started to become very awkward, very fast, Matthew alternated between staring at the two men with a flat, dry look in his bloodshot eyes. At first neither of them seemed to be bothered by the look of death being directed towards them. But then, when the Canadian gave an icy smirk, they started to shift about, somewhat uncomfortably, and the Spaniard even went as far as burying his face back down in the blankets and hauling his thick quilt up over his head as if in an attempt at hiding himself from the prying gaze of the one stood in the center of the room.

"You're both pigs," he finally said in a voice that was terrifyingly nonchalant as he picked up his backpack and removed from it two pill bottles, popping out a Valium and Zoloft, choking them back with some left over liquid. Thankfully enough it was indeed water, and not vodka like he feared it might have been - one was not to trust bottles of clear liquid in a room that had been previously filled to capacity with drunken college students and every brand name of alcohol known to man.

"I'm going to go and get a shower if that's fine with all of you," Matthew then announced as he put his medications back into an interior pouch of his bag. "If I'm not out within an hour, call for the National Guard to come in and get me, alright?"

There were two mumbles of agreement from either of the college students and Matthew laughed softly, shaking his head slowly and then grimacing slightly at the throb of protest that came from a spot just above his right eye. Fucking hangover; they always gave him the most painful cluster headaches known to man. If the excessive amount of alcohol in his system wasn't enough to make him sick, than the migraine the next morning would be more than enough to do him in.

Hobbling into the bathroom - which he thankfully had enough strength to clean after he had finished puking earlier on in the morning - Matthew set down his change of clothing down on the floor as he started the shower up. Pulling back he flicked a switch to turn on the overhead fan that would clear up the steam with minimal effort.

Stripping back out of the sweater and removing his glasses, he dropped the clothing to the floor along with his pyjama pants and boxers, stepping over the edge of the tub and under the stream of heated, pulsating water that poured down from the shower head and forcefully hit the tub he was standing in. The warm water on his bare, cold skin felt incredible, he noted with a shiver of pleasure, shoving his head under the flow and soaking his hair, eyes screwed shut. Blindly, he reached for the shampoo that was there and poured it onto his head, turning so that his back was to the water as he massaged his scalp, cleaning his hair twice before he put the bottle away and finished rinsing out his hair, freeing it from the sweet-smelling suds that Gilbert's hair was usually fragranced with.

And so, he just stood there under the water, letting the warmth hit him. It felt so relaxing, almost as though he were washing away his hangover and every other bad thing he had attached to him - which there were more than enough of. Running a hand absently down along his side, he also noted with some mild disdain that he could count, without any sort of impediment, seven of his twelve ribs. Lips dipped into a frown. This knowledge disgusted him to no end, and when he moved his hand to the other side he found he could count eight there with no problem. His searching hand travelled to his back and he ran his fingertips down along his spine, biting his lips and shutting his eyes as he felt the bumps on his spine - they were higher out than what they were last month. He had managed to lose even more weight, yet again. Why couldn't he keep it on? Was something like that just too hard to ask? He had eaten what Alfred had put in his fridge (although when the man asked if he was, he pointedly changed the topic of conversation with the utmost ease), and he had even bought some stuff that was on special that week with some extra money he happened to have. But still, why was he still steadily dropping pounds? That was all, honest to God that was all he wanted to know. Tears of frustration formed in his eyes and spilt down over his cheeks, forming a salty hot trail that he quickly washed away by sticking his face into the water. It ran down over his face, got into his mouth and it felt like he was suffocating as it ran down over his nose, preventing him from inhaling.

Maybe he could drown this way - something like that would be interesting. Everything would be far, far easier as well. But when his lungs demanded that air be returned to them, he gasped sharply and jerked his head back with a shuddering sigh.

(He was also beginning to lose track of all the different options, so let's just call this one number two hundred)

Rubbing at his face viciously, feeling tears continuing to stream down his cheeks and mingle with the water that was running down his pale skin from his drenched hair, Matthew simply gave up. The Canadian sat down on the floor of the bath, side-on to the spray of water, letting it douse his knees and midsection as he stared at the white curtain, eyes blank as he let his head rest back against the wall. He closed them and sighed, running his hand down over his face before remaining there, silent and unmoving, only lifting his hand on occasion to wipe away the tears that were really starting to get to him.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he simply sat there the entire time, letting the water pound his body until one side was numb from the pellet-like force of the water, and the other side was numb from the cold, from having no exposure to any warm water.

There was a knock at the door. "You still alive in there, Birdie? It's almost three-thirty."

"Barely," was Matthew's flat reply as he stood finally, knees buckling dangerously as he shut off the water with a sigh, tipping his head to the side as he rung out his sopping tendrils of hair. "I'll be out in a minute."

Grabbing a towel and drying off his hair, and then his body, he hauled on a pair of crisp blue jeans he had been given the evening before by Antonio as a Christmas gift - in return, the Spaniard had gotten another bottle of Port from the Canadian, which the man said he was going to save for New Year's Eve. Shouldering the pale gray dress shirt he had bought for the occasion - Matthew could not and would not justify spending thirty dollars on a shirt, but really, he couldn't just wear a t-shirt to a Christmas dinner - he picked up the hair dryer and turned it on, bending over and ducking his head slightly so he could blow dry the messy, soaked blonde locks before going over.

Some few minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, bright-eyed and smiling at Gilbert as he tucked his shirt down into his jeans, pulling on the sneakers he had gotten as well. "Do I look presentable?" he asked with a soft laugh, picking up his bag and stuffing his dirty clothes down into it before setting it back on the floor.

Gilbert, who had already changed into a black sweater and pair of jeans, glanced over from the desk where his laptop was and smiled. "You _always _look presentable, Birdie," he said with a laugh, stretching lazily before standing and grabbing his car keys from his desk.

Blushing and rolling his eyes, he smiled a little when he caught sight of the painting of the two soldiers and little girl he had done for the man hanging on the wall already. The art student followed his friend's gaze and ducked his head, smiling slightly when Matthew commented idly that he had wasted no time in getting it up there. "Well, I like it, so why not?" he mumbled, following after the Canadian as they left the room, the Prussian-American shouldered his jacket while the younger pulled a sweater over his head and snuggled down into it.

"Are you headed off to your parents place for dinner tonight?" Matthew asked as they headed down the hall, glancing over to the pale-skinned man beside him.

Gilbert nodded with a grin. "Oh yeah," he said. "Ludwig is going to be there, and with his new, hot Italian girlfriend. I plan on bringing out the baby photos before Dad gets a chance to." He cackled, looking positively malevolent as he essentially planned the demise of his younger brother's masculinity.

All Matthew could do was laugh, shaking his head and calling his friend a 'bad, bad man'. Checking his bag to make sure he had his own house keys and the art supplies Gilbert had given him for his Christmas gift (including a home made card that nearly brought tears of laughter to Matthew's eyes), he hoisted his bag back up and trailed behind Gilbert, finding that he never wanted to leave the place, that this was where he wanted to stay for as long as it was possible.

But that wouldn't happen, not unless some sort of miracle occurred in the near future.

* * *

One might imagine that having a family dinner with your psychiatrist's family would be a stiffly polite, awkward and tediously formal affair. In most cases, that is the God given truth.

But when it came to Ian McKnight and his family, it was anything but that.

In fact, Matthew almost wondered if he was the sanest one that was there in the house.

Sitting on the floor with the family cat curled up in his lap, back against the sofa, Matthew watched the television with Greg, Dr. McKnight's eldest son - a man that worked for ExxonMobil and was quite the intelligent individual. Neither of them were at all interested in watching It's a Wonderful Life for the second time that day, but no complaints were made considering Greg's wife and his younger sister, Chloe, were the ones that had claimed sovereignty over the remote for the remainder of the evening - and when it came to Greg's wife, Jade, you did not defy a pregnant woman, not unless you had a death wish.

Greg, who was sprawled off across the sofa, his head down by Matthew's and a glass of cold champagne on his stomach, looked incredibly bored and close to falling asleep as the smell of a turkey dinner being prepared by Ian and Peggy came wafting out through the kitchen door, down the hall, and into the living room of the splendid Manhattan apartment.

"Enjoying the film?" Greg asked in a flat voice, glancing to the Canadian who looked as though he were in the process of nodding off as well while he rubbed behind the cat's ears.

Jolting, the hung-over youth turned his gaze so that it rested on the business man and grinned wryly. "Immensely," he deadpanned. "Although my hangover is providing even more amusement for me right now. So is staring at the cat, but all the same."

The man laughed, drawing the attention of the two women and causing them to shush him with stern looks on his face. Greg scowled, muttering '_women_' under his breath in a vile-sounding tone of voice and rolling his eyes, causing Matthew to snicker quietly, ducking his head lest they hear him.

Standing as he removed the glass of champagne from his stomach, Greg stretched and yawned, running his hand through his dark brown hair and shaking out the closely cropped locks. "Let's leave the women to their, ah, fawning over black and white films while we go and discuss things that are relevant," he said, motioning for Matthew to get up and join him. "Like, oh I don't know, the price of tea in China and England or something like that."

Laughing despite the glares they both received this time around, Matthew followed behind the man that stood almost a full head taller than anyone else in the entire house. The cat gave him an offended look for a brief moment before twining about his legs and curling up on the spot on the sofa that had just been vacated.

Leading them to McKnight's home office, where there were more books and fancy objects than what an office would normally have, Greg flopped down on the sofa that was there while Matthew sunk down into an arm chair, looking far to comfortable and smug.

"So, I have to ask you, how do you know Dad?" Greg asked idly as he sipped on his drink, smiling encouragingly at the younger man before him.

Freezing at the question, eyes widening, Matthew's mouth opened and closed uselessly for a brief moment. He hadn't been expecting to be pulled off to the side like this by an oil company mogul and questioned about how he knew the man that had invited him to dinner. McKnight had warned him that it might happen, but not to expect it - usually his kids, although somewhat crazy despite being adults and the fact that they all conformed to the cliché (we put the fun back in dysfunctional!) they were not usually nosy and knew when to draw the line and stop asking questions.

'_It must be hard to draw the line when you've only just started, though,' _Matthew thought nervously, swallowing and looking away.

"I, ah, I'm one of your dad's p-patients," he said, voice dropping to a whisper as he wrung his hands, staring awkwardly at the floor.

But, to his surprise, Greg didn't react the way he had expected to. Instead, his eyes lit up and he leant forward. "Oh, so you're _that _Matthew!" he declared with a grin, nodding. "Dad's mentioned you a few times. I've wanted to meet you for a while now, actually."

"W-What?" Looking up quickly, he blinked several times, cheeks heating up as he chewed on his lower lip, running a hand through his hair and managing a weak smile. "And h-he has? Ah…"

"Yes, yes, all good stuff nothing to worry," he said with a laugh. "He thinks very highly about you."

The blush adorning his cheeks darkened drastically, and the Canadian bit his lip, trying to keep from smiling too much. Yes, he knew McKnight thought well of him - the man had told him that several times - but he never thought his psychiatrist would actually go as far as talking about him to members of his family about him. The knowledge caused something warm to bloom in his chest and he ran a hand through his hair, smiling freely now as he looked past Greg and to the wall.

"As well, I also hear you're quite the artist," Greg said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial look in his eyes - eyes that were like McKnight's in every way possible. "He showed me some pictures of the stuff you've done, and all I can say is that you have some serious talent at your fingertips."

If it was at all possible, Matthew's cheeks had gone scarlet and he all but hoped that the floor was going to open up and swallow him whole. So, that's what they had talked about: his art. For some reason, it started to make a lot more sense.

"Which is why I wanted to ask you a few things," Greg continued cheerfully, eyes bright and the smile on his face a winning one, subtly reminding him of a certain American. It was enough to cause some of the heat to run out of his face and maybe even cause a scowl to form on his lips - but because he was in the presence of who seemed to be a very nice man, he chose not to. "First off, I was wondering - one of the paintings Dad showed me. It was the one of the Statue of Liberty with the AK-47 instead of the torch and a book with the names of the FBI's most wanted on it instead of the Declaration of Independence or whatever it is she's holding. Do you still have that one?"

Wracking his memory to try and remember which painting it was that McKnight's son was talking about, his eyes suddenly lit up and he nodded. That one he had painted while living with McKnight, in the first month he had been there. Baby blue canvas, twelve by fourteen. He remembered it very well - it was the first thing he had painted in almost two years at that time, and had come out far better than expected. One of his favourites, but it had ended up in a pile in his bedroom, along with the many other completed paintings he no longer had the space to put up on the walls in his apartment. "Yes, I do actually," he said politely, nodding his head and smiling. His stomach was twisting nervously in on itself and he could actually feel his palms beginning to sweat. He swallowed hard. "Why do you ask?"

Greg surprised him by removing his wallet from his suit jacket, counting out several bills from it. "I'll give you five hundred for it," he said, setting down five hundred-dollar bills down in front of Matthew, causing the Canadian's face to go white and his eyes to widen with shock. "And I want to see some of your other works later on as well; I'm in the process of redecorating my office, and I'm looking for some art to hang there. And frankly, I'm more into modern stuff than all that classical shit the other guys have hanging in their own offices. Your stuff is what I've been looking for for _months_ now, and that's that. What do you say?"

Staring at the bills on the table, picking them up and looking up at Greg with impossibly wide eyes, he nodded weakly. "I-I-I… y-yes, ah, th-this is more than f-fine. I … I just … wow," he finished with an equally weak laugh, warmth making its way back into his cheeks. "Wh-when w-would you like to c-come over and look?"

"Well, tomorrow might be best; I go back to work after that and I'm sure you do, too," Greg said pleasantly, his smile wide as he sipped his champagne. "Also, there's something else I wanted to ask you to do for me."

Laughing in a voice that was a pitch higher as he slipped the money into his pocket, Matthew gestured for him to speak, thoughts too incoherent at the moment for him to even try and formulate the words he wanted so desperately to use at the moment.

"Well, Jade's going to be having the baby around March, and we were both wondering if we could commission you decorate the room for us," he said with a soft smile, a sparkle in his eyes, looking excited as he set the glass of nearly-gone bubbly down on the table that separated them. "We'll pay you one grand for it considering we'll need you to take some days off of work to complete it, and we already have colour schemes picked out because we already know that she's having a girl. All we're looking for is some cutesy stuff - butterflies, rainbows, ponies, flowers. Shit like that. Happy, calming stuff that she won't grow out of until she's at least nine or ten, y'know? And if it's really good, then we might pay you some extra. How does that sound to you?"

Matthew was positively breathless as he nodded, eyes going wide as he covered his mouth and laughed, whispering a 'thank you' as he tried his best not to cry from the overwhelming amount of emotions he was suddenly experiencing - ones he hadn't felt in so damn long thrown into the mix as well.

Stretching lazily, as though he had not done the boy across from him a world of favours and then some, he grinned somewhat smugly. "I'll probably end up taking three or four more of your paintings off of your hands, if you don't mind; I have a lot of wall space to take up in my, ahem, lovely penthouse office."

Clearing his throat once he finally felt as though he might have relocated his voice, Matthew edged forward and bit his lip. "You know, you really don't have to pay me anymore for my paintings," he said quietly. "Five hundred is far more than what they are already worth. I'm just happy that someone likes them enough to buy them."

"Nonsense," he said with a rich laugh as he drained back the rest of his alcohol. "I have enough money to toss around, Matthew - no need to worry about that. Extra savings from university, and I just got my Christmas bonus. So, I think I'm capable of paying for what your art is worth."

'What his art was worth'. All the artist could do was nod, feeling numb all over and a stupid smile still plastered upon his face as he did his best to process what it was that happened just then. He just got five hundred dollars for a painting, was being offered a thousand or more to paint a baby's room, and there was a chance he'd get another sum for several more of his paintings. Normally he was not inclined to part with his artistic endeavours - they became part of him, to an extent, especially after spending so much time working on one piece as he usually did - but this? This was not an opportunity he could pass up so easily on. This was money, and money that he needed. Savings for in case he ever got the opportunity to reapply to the School of Visual Arts - the same one that had enthusiastically accepted him several years ago, and the one that Gilbert and Antonio currently attended. Hell, he had two semesters worth of tuition already at his fingers, especially once he got to painting the baby's room.

"Thank you," he said in a voice the wavered dangerously. "Thank you so very much, Sir."

Greg cringed at this and Matthew almost panicked, wondering what it was that he had done wrong, what he had said wrong to cause the look of disdain to form on his face. "Jesus, I'm only thirty-six," he groaned. "Don't start calling me 'Sir' just yet, _please. _It's Greg or nothing, got it?"

Matthew laughed and nodded. "Alright, Greg," he said softly, glancing up when McKnight enter the room, smiling slightly at the sight of his son and patient talking so easily. The psychiatrist stood a little way away from them, hands in his pocket as he watched the exchange between the two men.

"Just letting you know dinner's ready whenever you want it," the man that was slowly going bald said with a relaxed grin, turning and heading back out to wherever he came from - which was more than likely the kitchen. "So I recommend you come out to have it now unless you want Peggy to come out and beat the two of you up."

Leaning across the table, whispering to the Canadian artist in a low voice, the ExxonMobil worker smirked. "Mom can be a real brute when it comes to being late for dinner," he said with a low laugh, winking at the younger man, causing him to chuckle a little, hand going to his mouth to mask the sound the best he could. "If we want to live to see Boxing Day, we might want to go now."

Both of them jumped when they noticed McKnight leaning down into their little secret-mumbling zone. "You're damn right you might want to go now if you want to live to see Boxing Day," the doctor said with a wry laugh, straightening up and leaving the two men to decide whether or not they did, indeed, want to see Boxing Day. It didn't require much thought; McKnight wasn't even all the way out of the room when the two were on their feet and quickly following after him and then passing him to get to the dining room where a large turkey dinner was being served up.

However, Matthew stopped McKnight before either of them could enter the room to sit down and eat, the young Canadian turning to stare at the American with an abnormally soft and tender look in his deeply coloured eyes.

"What is it?" the shrink asked, tilting his head to the side in a thoughtful manner as he assessed the look upon the other's face

He was taken off guard in a way most pleasant when Matthew reached out and gave his psychiatrist a surprisingly strong hug. Without a moment's hesitation, arms wrapped themselves around the young man, and startling even himself, he pressed a somewhat fatherly kiss to the youth's forehead as the boy whispered a grateful 'thank you', appearing as though he might start crying at any given moment.

At this, McKnight gave a soft smile. "Thank you for what?" he asked quietly, laughing in a low, deep voice as he let go of the thin young man.

"Everything," Matthew whispered, looking at the floor as he chewed upon his lip and blinked rapidly before he met the other's eyes with a level gaze. "_Everything_." Turning and heading out into the kitchen, the Canadian wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, still smiling despite the tears that were there - why they were there in the first place was something he was not entirely sure of. Perhaps it was just simply relief; he had seen people cry because of that before. Not everyone cried because of sorrow, or heartbreak. There were always other reasons, different motives.

And although he loathed crying, for once it felt nice to be crying over something that just felt so undeniably amazing.

Taking the seat that Chloe, the baby of the family, gestured to with a wide smile revealing gap teeth that he thought to be just too adorable, Matthew smiled shyly at the thirty-four-year-old woman as he set himself down, hands folded in his lap as he watched everyone putting food on their plates. There was quiet conversation being made, and he hesitantly plucked up a wheat roll, setting it down on the edge of his plate and leaning back as Peggy, a tiny plump woman with curly white hair, luminescent gray eyes and a cherry red nose (the perfect grandmother material, he decided to himself with a smile), put some cooked vegetables down onto his plate alongside the turkey, salt meat and dressing that was already there. Peggy smiled down at him before making her way over to the next plate - Jade's - and doing the same thing.

Once all of the plates were filled, and a small grace said, they started eating and discussing idle things as Matthew remained silently focused on the plate in front of him, occasionally taking a sip from the glass of ice cold red wine in front of him. The food, he decided with an inward smile of delight, tasted incredible. Even his own mother wouldn't have been able to cook as good of a turkey dinner - eleven chances out of ten said the turkey would have either dried out or would have been completely undercooked.

Just because he loved his mother and missed her with all his heart, it did not mean he missed her attempts at cooking turkey dinners.

As he ate, Matthew found it easier to relax amongst McKnight's family. They were such a large, friendly clan of people that he would have found it impossible to not feel comfortable amongst them. The entire family was all smiles the entire time they ate, laughing as they caught up on different things from all sides of the family. Like how Chloe's husband was due back from Iraq in a few weeks time, and that he had been over there for almost two years now on an extended tour of duty and that this was his second time being there. While the youth was a pacifist, and brutally so, the knowledge made him smile.

Turning to the boy, Jade smiled. "What about you, Matthew?" she asked. "What's your family like?"

The colour left Matthew's face and he looked down, absently picking at the food on his face while McKnight rubbed his forehead. Greg shot his wife a sharp look from across the table, shaking his head slightly as if to say 'no, don't ask something like that'. It seemed she caught on to the meaning of the pointed glance rather quickly as she bit her lip and brought her glass of water up to her lips.

Much to the surprise of the family in the dining room, Matthew gave a nonchalant shrug. "I don't have a family," he said in a quiet voice, smiling oddly as he lifted his wine glass to his lips to take a sip from it. After a moment he set it back down. "My mom died when I was seventeen and my step-father only kept me until my eighteenth birthday. Other than that, yeah. I have no family. But that's fine by me." He cut up a piece of turkey and set it down on his tongue, chewed thoughtfully, and then promptly excused himself from the table when he realized he no longer had an appetite.

Giving a soft smile that was hopefully somewhat reassuring to Jade, he left the dining room after thanking Peggy several times for the meal, laughing when he cheeks grew even rosier. The moment he set foot into the hall, the smile fell from his face and he drew a shuddering breath, willing himself not to cry. Because that would be just so utterly fucking humiliating; who cried when everyone else was happy? What kind of idiot did that?

When he reached up and felt the wetness on his cheeks, he cursed himself when he realized that yes; he was that kind of idiot through and through.

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of thoughts that were leaning towards self-loathing, and he quickly swiped at his eyes to free them of the tears. But they were still an incriminatingly bright shade of red. Sniffing, he looked down when he saw McKnight stood there.

"Are you alright, Matt?" he asked quietly, peering at the frail young man before him.

Slowly, Matthew nodded and sighed, wiping at his eyes one last time before offering a watery smile. "Yes, I'm fine," he replied in a similar tone.

"I'm very glad you know she didn't mean anything by that," McKnight said, keeping his voice low as he walked out into the living room, Matt close at his heels. "I'm just surprised you answered her."

Shrugging lightly, the boy sighed. "It would have been rude on my end to ignore her question or get angry with her for it," he said in a crisp voice as he took a seat on the sofa, running a hand through his hair and yawning. Instead of What a Wonderful Life, the television was now playing one of the many versions of A Christmas Carol - and from the looks of it, it was the one with the Muppets. "So I figured I might as well answer her question, despite what the answer was."

For a long moment, they remained in silence, simply watching the movie on the television - which indeed turned out to be A Muppet's Christmas Carol - before McKnight sat down beside the Canadian youth. "You've improved," was all he said, causing Matthew to look over at him and give a small, wry smile.

"I should hope I have," he murmured quietly, looking down at his hands, running his thumb across his forearm absentmindedly. One incident in a whole year? Yes, that was an improvement beyond all.

With a soft laugh, the psychiatrist tousled the youth's hair, earning him a spluttering laugh and a light slap to the hand. "Two years to the very day," he murmured quietly, smiling slightly at the young man. "You picked a good day, kid."

Matthew laughed out-right now, rubbing his face. "A day if any day at all," he said in agreement, nodding. "And it's always a party."

He held out his hand, clenching it into a fist and rose an eyebrow, offering the fist to his doctor and pseudo-father.

"Knucklebump?"

"Might as well."

* * *

Ahahahaha Christmaaaaas. =3= That's all I really have to say for this chapter xD That, and it was a lot of fun writing them with a hangover. Like, way too much fun. As well, during the duration of this chapter, I also started working on chapter 26, which is part one of three AND I'M REALLY FUCKING EXCITED FOR THAT SHIT YEAAH.

Thank you all so so so much for the reviews. And I'm at over 100 alerts for this story. Wtf. :'D


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN.**

He didn't know how he was awake. He really, really did not understand how his brain was functioning on the three hours sleep that he had gotten forty-nine hours ago. Honestly, it felt like someone had sawn open his skull, removed his brain and fried it on the concrete, and then before returning it to his respective cranium, had run over it several times with a giant Mack truck and had used some very cheap alcohol to clean up the mess before slapping it all back in topside.

The formula to instant Jack Sparrow behaviour, by the way.

Yawning somewhat exaggeratedly until tear blossomed in the corners of his eyes as he walked slowly down the sidewalk, glancing occasionally at building numbers and the number he had written on his palm, Matthew kept his backpack tight to his thin frame as he wandered in amongst the crowed, essentially faceless just like the other men and women. Deeply hued eyes were bloodshot from sheer exhaustion, and he covered his mouth as he yawned again, coming close to walking into a fellow pedestrian as his steps turned in a more staggering direction. With each yawn he grew progressively more and more light-headed, and his equilibrium was being thrown completely out the window. Oh well, he didn't need that shit anyway. Righting himself again, he ran a hand through his snowflake-dampened hair and offered an apologetic smile to the guy that gave him a murderous look before storming off down the sidewalk, shoving roughly past him.

Puffing his cheeks as he frowned and rolled his eyes, the Canadian yawned again as he continued on his merry way, a dopey smile taking back its place upon his pale, thin face and looking like Hell had found him too tough to chew and simply spat him back out. He was viewing the world around him with tunnel vision, and it felt like everything was being heard from a great distance - the cars, the hustle and bustle of people, barking dogs; all of it felt as though it were miles away from him and where he treaded, not right next to his goddamn ears. And upon further inspection of his appearance in a storefront's window the youth noticed with some mild disdain and wry amusement that he looked like a heroin junkie three days short of a fix.

Turning to face forwards once more, disliking how he was being jostled by the crowd of business men and women, Matthew once more puffed his cheeks in a manner that was somewhat spiteful as he glanced back to the address on his palm.

All Alfred had explained to him was the street it was on, the number, and that he would know the building when he saw it.

Scowling, exhausted and suddenly terrifyingly grumpy, he simply trudged on forwards, deciding then and there that he was going to ream out that stupid fucking American for giving him such vague, goddamn directions to the condo he lived in. Seriously, just because he knew the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn better than the back of his hand, it did not mean he knew where every goddamn building was located to. Assuming something like that was sheer madness, and being just plain stupid. Then again, there were lots of things about him that was stupid. Lots and lots and _lots._

Well, he'd ream him out when he felt a little more awake. Like, when he got eighth or ninth wind; he had already lost track of how many times it had come around.

Another half an hour of walking and Matthew stopped dead, blinking blearily up at the tall apartment building that loomed before him. Tired eyes went wide; that didn't look like an apartment building to him, there was no way in hell. While he didn't quite expect the place that Alfred lived in to be anything at all similar to the one he himself resided in, he didn't expect it to be so … nice looking. The building was modern and loomed well over his head, reflecting the scant sunlight off its glass façade - it seemed that that was what the entire building was built from. Large, mirror-like slabs that reflected nothing other than the sky overhead. It was then he realized that they were all windows, one-way windows. He let out a low whistle. Very modern, very fashionable, and he was not surprised although he had not been expecting it at all.

As well, he was not expecting it to have its own doorman, but that was a different story altogether.

(Matthew could quietly argue the fact that his apartment had a doorman at one point, too. A man that slept in a chair for a few days down in the front lobby, and that seemed to stay there until one of the tenants' noticed that he seemed to smell rather off. That was when they realized the guy was actually, well, dead. It was unfortunate, and that was when Matthew stopped using the front door at all and opted for using the dangerous, oxidized fire escape.)

Slowing to a stop and shifting anxiously on the sidewalk as he scratched at the back of his leg with the tip of his slush-covered boot, the Canadian bit his lower lip hesitantly, peering up over the rims of his spectacles and frowning softly. He glanced back to his palm, chewing even hard on his lip. He needed to get up to the seventh floor. '_How dreadfully obnoxious of him_,' the young man scoffed. '_Blowing all that money on a place like this when he could be doing something better with it. Asshole._'Was it necessary to live in such a large building, and in a suite on the top floor nonetheless? It did not make him cool or at all _avant garde, _as the lawyer probably hoped for.

There were a few choice words he could use to describe an individual like the American in question, but because Matthew was too tired to even consider thinking about dredging his memory for them, he refrained from using them. For now.

Shuffling up to the front door, he offered the doorman a small, pathetic smile before entering the building, somewhat bewildered that the man actually did his job and held the door open; more than once he had had a front door slammed in his face by a doorman. This, you know, is not the nicest thing to experience. Sort of rude, really. So he gave the doorman another smile - this one a little more confident than the first, and the man actually returned it somewhat half-heartedly, before the door was shut firmly behind him to keep out the cool, wintry draft. He glanced at the palm of his hand, only to find the numbers and words there had faded to the point of being completely illegible - by now, however, he had looked to what was scribbled there enough times to have it memorized for the next little while, and not just the rest of the day.

With a hazy glance around the lobby - a beautifully decorated, lavish space with two leather couches and a HD television stationed in the corner of the room - Matthew found that his frown was deepening with each passing second, and a sense of dismay was beginning to form in his chest. He swallowed against the thick lump that had risen in his throat. This man obviously had a shit-ton of money, to say the very least. He probably drank at high-class parties, slept with high-class whores and did everything high fucking class. Matthew, on the other hand, knew very well that everything he did - including his sheer existence - was sub par to even the lowest of low classes.

Just what was he getting himself into?

He gritted his teeth as he tapped the snow from the toes of the boots he had bought himself, adjusting the beige, waist-length parka he had gotten as well from the money he had been given for all of his paintings (a whopping four thousand dollars, because Greg had brought along two of his friends who were also in the process of redecorating their respective office spaces), before he headed further into the building, glancing around as he tried to locate the elevator. Or even a flight of stairs.

Or, _maybe_, it had one of the badass teleportation things like the Silph Co. had in the Pokémon games and it would just _totally_ take him to Alfred's front door and it would be epic and all sorts of wonderfully glamorous things like that because the dirty bastard was fucking rich as shit from the looks of it and could afford to waste his money on the stupidest, most banal and trivial things known to man _just because he was the definition of human excretion and he could fucking do that._

Not that the Canadian artist was bitter about it, though. A little harsh, maybe.

No Sir-ee, he wasn't bitter at all.

Shaking out his damp locks of curly blonde hair, he yawned and stretched and then finally set his sights upon the elevator - which had been artfully concealed by being painted the same colour as the walls in the entranceway. He gave an off-kilter smirk, adjusting his bag and heading over to the afore mentioned elevator that had been placed in a manner that would be aesthetically appealing to the viewer of the room's eye. Something like that - the aesthetic appeal, that is - was dreadfully important to these sorts of people. People with money and good looks and fancy-ass cars loved it when everything looked good, liked to pretend that it was all 'abstract' and so positively wonderful as they came up with bullshit reasons as to just why it was it was done that way, and why it made so much _sense. _

Matthew, on the other hand, just thought it was unbelievably inconvenient and stupid, and not to mention dreadfully tacky.

And if there was any one thing in the world that Matthew really did not like, it was an elevator. He did not care how big and spacious it was; he did not care how brightly lit it was; he did not care how clean it was; he did not care how quiet it was and he did not care how smooth the ride in it was. Lifts and their shafts were the bane of his existence. Perhaps it was because he had seen The Shining at such a young age and the scene with the blood gushing out through the doors of the elevator might have emotionally traumatized him to the point that he went into a fit of hysterics by simply being brought to the doors of one and had to seek therapy for several months before he could even consider going back into one.

(His mother, bless her soul, never forgave his elder cousin for showing him that movie when he was seven.)

So standing there, all alone in the center of the elevator, hands fisted into the material of his new, plush, and wonderfully insulated from the cold parka, the young man kept his teeth clenched down upon his lower lip as he flicked his eyes about the space as it ascended to the seventh floor. He grimaced at each subtle jerk of the lift, and he sucked in his breath with each quiet creak of the cables. He was almost fearful that the cable would snap or, heaven forbid, the goddamn thing would get stuck in the shaft and they would never, ever, find him. Ever.

It was like waiting for the goddamn zombie apocalypse. With that 'Would it just happen already?' sort of anticipation accompanied by the whole 'I would rather it if it did not, actually…' sort of anxiety. You know it's going to happen sometime, you don't actually _want _it to happen, but for the love of Christ it would be nice if it just got itself done and over with, for the sake of one's sanity, but of course. Only for that little, unimportant reason though. Because sanity isn't worth shit on the stock markets.

By the time the elevator came to a full stop at the seventh floor - a mere two minutes later - the young man was massaging his temples and muttering vehemently beneath his breath about never watching another horror movie for as long as he lived, and that if he did may the Lord strike him down with some fiery locust or some tripe like that that was all biblical and stuff. That, and he was praying to fall asleep right there on the spot - curling up on the floor sounded as though it would be just as amazing as sleeping in his bed, considering they were the equivalent to one another.

Glancing around the empty space - well, it wasn't _that_ empty, just a little boring with the terrible, stereotypical landscape painting a five-year-old could have produced with a blindfold and their fingers, and the fake, plastic plant by the rather large window - he decided that he did not like the place, not one little bit. It was just so dull, so bland, and it made him want to puke all over the floor just for the sake of adding a little pizzazz to the space that could use so much work done with it. Hell, he could probably call it pop art and get away with it; people were into that now, right?

Oh well, no sense in standing there and critiquing the layout and how it was decorated, he decided dryly. Unzipping the top part of his winter jacket, adjusting the black straps on the front of the beige surface, he faltered before ringing the doorbell, black-gloved hand falling a little. His brow furrowed and he bit his lip, looking away as he shuffled back a few steps. There was no way he could do this - no way at all. All it would take was him just turning around and going back the way he came, ignoring the fact that he had been the one to suggest hanging out in the first place (a disgusting ill-planned idea on his behalf, he admitted with some disdain and a lot of self-loathing). All it would take was him turning around and going back to the elevator. So damn easy that he could positively laugh about it. Hell, he would even welcome the ride back down in the elevator with open arms and a giant smile.

And then he rang the doorbell, this time not even hesitating to call himself every vulgar word that was at his immediate disposal, also including the Danish and Norwegian insults he had learned from Matthias and Teit, respectively.

Several excruciating moments later, moments in which his heart felt like it was going pop out of his chest and beat him up, the door opened and Alfred stood there, looking somewhat surprised at first. And then, a small smile caused his lips to curve upwards, bright aquamarine depths lighting up behind his glasses. "Hey," he said cheerfully - a little too cheerfully, the Canadian decided grumpily. "C'mon in."

The American stepped back, still holding the door open as Matthew crossed the threshold and entered the room, earning a mumbled thanks as the lithe Canadian divested himself of his jacket and boots. He set the boots down neatly by the door the toes lined up and heels placed firmly against the wall, setting his bag with his jacket upon a coat hook. He swept his eyes across it. Neat enough, and a quick glance to Alfred proved his thoughts; there was a tiny, unusually shy smile on the man's face. And then he yawned, tears popping up into the corners of his eyes.

At this, Alfred arched an eyebrow, smirking lightly. "Tired, are we?" he asked teasingly, shooing his guest from the porch and into the living room, the smirk fading a little when he saw how Matthew stood there awkwardly, gazing about the wide space with a sort of apprehension and something that was akin to sadness. The younger man had his arms folded loosely across his chest and his shoulders had slumped just the slightest bit as he chewed the inside of his cheek, taking in his surroundings with a sort of embarrassment. So, this was what Alfred came home to every day. A surround-sound system with a wall-mounted HDTV, expensive furniture and a view that most people would kill for. He swallowed dryly. Lovely. Just plain lovely. He didn't even want to see the appliances in the kitchen, for the love of Christ.

Blinking slowly, Matthew nodded before offering the American a lazy smile, stretching and arching his back a little. Well, it couldn't be helped; they came from two entirely different walks of life and backgrounds, so it was only expected that someone like that would have things like these. No sense in dwelling on it, he decided glumly, although he could not help but do so even if only a little. "So," he said as he masked another yawn, running a hand through his hair and shaking out the little droplets of water as he did so. He felt the icy water roll down the nape of his neck. "What do you want to do?"

"Well, I actually have to finish taking some notes for now," he mumbled sheepishly, running a hand through his hair and directing his apologetic gaze to the ground in the process. "I didn't think you'd be here so early, so I decided to get some important stuff out of the way. But if you don't mind waiting for, say, an hour, then we can do something? Even if it's just sitting around and playing videogames or whatever."

For a moment the young man was quiet, and then he nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "Sounds good to me. Do you want me to, like, go for now and then come back later?" As he spoke, he started to make his way to the door, reaching for his jacket. "If that's what you want, I don't mind."

"No, no," Alfred said quickly, throwing up his hands and steering the thin man back towards the living room. From the uneasy look on his lean face, it was obvious that was the very last thing he wanted to do; they both knew fairly well that should Matt leave now, he probably wouldn't bother coming back later and would just say that he completely forgot about coming back to hang out. "Just … chill out. Do whatever. Raid my 'fridge, watch my television. I really don't care. Go nuts and throw a rave. I'll be in my office if you need me."

And so, Matthew was left to his own devices, standing in the middle of a condo that was probably worth more a month than what he paid in rent for his apartment in the run of a year. Watching the American as he disappeared off into another room, the door being closed only a little bit, he stood there, frowning thoughtfully and sighing tiredly on occasion.

So, he did the most logical thing that he could possibly do at that very moment in time. He went and sat down on the sofa, turned on the television and the effect that was bound to follow doing something as foolish as that was almost immediate.

When Alfred came out of the room a little under an hour later, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that the Canadian was nowhere to be found. The lawyer bit his lip apprehensively, glancing about the room as he shifted his weight. The television was on, and playing what he realized after a moment to be Spongebob Squarepants. This small little revelation brought a smile to his face and he approached the sofa, eyes widening when he saw the younger man lying down on his side, face partially buried in the pillow and his glasses knocked askew as he slept soundly, face slack and his mouth partially opened. The man was utterly silent, knees drawn partially up to his chest and a pillow clenched to his chest. He was, in all aspects of the phrase, out for the count.

It took every bit of his self-restraint to keep from cooing and pinching the slumbering man's cheeks repeatedly until he woke up (and more than likely pounded him black, blue and a lovely shade of mauve that would match the casing of his iPhone).

Instead, he let a fond smile appear on his face, looking away from him and over to the arm chair. There was a blanket draped over the back of it. He blinked. With another glance to the peacefully sleeping artist, he quickly grabbed the quilt, moving back over the place it down over him. He paused for a moment when he sniffed slightly, but otherwise there was no stirring at all from him. Sighing, he gently brushed his fingertips across his forehead. The skin was soft and cool, almost icy under his fingertips despite the healthy flush on his thin cheeks. Not even the slightest twitch came from him; he was that sound asleep. The American let his fingers trail from his forehead and down over his cheeks, resting there for a brief moment before he pulled away altogether.

Laughing a little and shaking his head, he shut off the television, heading over to his kitchen and opening to 'fridge, from it retrieving a can of coke and popping the top on it, sipping back the little bit that fizzed up to keep it from spilling down over the sides and making a sticky mess of the can. He sighed, leaning back against the counter, turning his gaze so that it was no longer upon Matthew (even he acknowledged that just staring at the boy was positively creepy as shit) and so that it was now instead directed towards the front window. The sky just beyond was cold and clear, a light shade of blue as the sun had wormed its way high up into the sky. The sun, however, did not have as much of a glow to it as it usually did. It made him frown a little, but otherwise it did nothing.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

A (manly) shriek was startled out of Alfred and he almost dropped his can of cola in the process. Wide eyes turned to focus upon a sleepy-looking Matthew, arms crossed and looking somewhat rumpled by having been so rudely (yet unintentionally) screamed at when he was after just waking up. The man placed a hand to his chest and his drink down on the counter, sighing exhaling forcefully as he let his head flop back between his shoulder blades. "I didn't wake you because you looked really tired when you came in."

For a moment Matthew just looked at him, swirling, cold optics unreadable. During this moment of tense, awkward silence, Alfred contemplated a possible escape route should the boy either smack him, or if there should be a zombie apocalypse within the next few minutes.

He really needed to get a bunker in Colorado or something.

Then, he simply shook his head, laughing and running a hand through kinked waves of chin-length blonde hair. "Well, thanks. I guess I … needed ..." No longer was he looking at Alfred, but in the direction of the baby grand piano, eyes going wide and his mouth opening into an 'o' of surprise. "Y-You play the p-_piano_?"

Arching an eyebrow, Alfred scoffed and shook his head. "God no," he sniffed. "It was a gift from my dad, and it makes for a nice room decoration. That and it would be rude to get rid of it and, more than likely, he would kill me if I did. It's still perfectly tuned and all if I ever did want to learn how, but I just really don't care to; playing instruments isn't really my thing, per se."

"Oh." Matthew rocked back and forth on his heels for a moment, gnawing on his lower lip as he eyed the instrument. Then, he flicked his gaze back to Alfred, an unusual look in his eyes.

Frowning briefly as he wondered what the look was for, he smiled a little once it clued in just what it meant. "Yeah, you can play it if you want. Go nuts."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth and the Canadian was already crossing the room, peeling off his sweater as he went and folding it, placing it down primly on the floor beside the piano bench. Opening the lid and propping the wood open with a stick, he uncovered the ebony and ivory keys, taking a seat upon the bench and flexing his fingers, cracking his knuckles in the process. He let his fingers skim across the keys in silence, as though he were trying to get a feel for them, trying to get used to them. As the American observed in an equal silence, he found himself wondering if the boy was actually trained in playing the piano, or if he was just one of those people that liked to fool around with the notes and pretend it was pretty music. A lot of his friends were like that an-

Oh, ha-ha. He was referring to Matthew as his friend. Wasn't he the hilarious one? His chest clenched painfully and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

If nothing at all came from today, that was it. No more Mister Nice Jones.

After several minutes of nothing, the smile left the lawyer's face and he tilted his head a little to the side, watching through narrowed eyes as it seemed like Matthew simply wanted to sit there and air-play. Maybe he really was trained in the piano, and he was trying to get used to it again? A deep frown marred his perpetually cheerful expression and he crossed the room, going to stand behind the Canadian, peering over his shoulder as it appeared as though he were finally going to attempt playing something. There was no sheet music available to him, so he couldn't help but wonder if he was going to play something from memory. Because, when he thought about it, it did seem as though he had an excellent memory…

Music startled him, and he continued to watch - and now listen, as well - as there was a soft cascade of notes. He had no idea what it was he was playing, but all he knew was that it sounded damn well wonderful. Moving over to the side of the instrument and taking a seat on the floor, Alfred yawned and rested his head against the piano, side-on to the player and letting the vibrations go through his entire frame. Normally piano music wasn't really his thing - sure, he liked a piano _in _music, but he was not a big fan of when the only instrument was a piano itself. It was the main reason as to why he never actually sat down to learn how to play his instrument. That, and he knew it would piss his father the hell off. He glanced upwards and smiled a little at the look of concentration on the young man's pale face. Eyes met with his, and for the briefest moment Matthew smiled gently. Not his usual mocking sneer or cold, empty grin, but an actual _smile_. It was something that brightened his usually dull features, bright a vivid colour and light to his eyes. Something that made him look alive.

Alfred felt his stomach warm up and something in his chest ache, a different sort of ache than what he had felt before, and instead of maintaining eye contact, he returned the smile for a moment and let his head rest back against the piano once more, eyes shutting as he sighed gently.

This was … _nice._

When the song was finished some minutes later, the pianist started up another song. This one caused the American's eyes to open and another smile to break out across his face. When he glanced up to Matthew, he saw the younger man was smiling shyly, swaying along slightly to the music. They both gave a start when Alfred decided to sing along to it on a complete and utter whim:

"_It's nine o'clock on a Saturday; the regular crowd shuffles in. There's an old man sittin' next to me, makin' love to his tonic and gin,_" sky blue eyes fluttered shut as the lawyer recalled the words to the song. His singing was anything but perfect - far from good, really - but it had a warm sort of sound to it, his voice low and gruff but soft at the same time. "_He says, 'Son can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete when I wore a younger man's clothes. La la la di da da, la la di di da da dum._" He drew a breath before continuing, the smile still on his face. If he had looked up to Matthew, he would have seen a bright smile on the boy's face, a look of utter contentment written there. "_Sing us a song, you're the piano man. Sing us a song tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody and you've got us feelin' all right._"

The two continued on for some time, laughing and singing along to whatever songs Matthew could think of playing at the moment that either one of them knew well enough to sing along to. Every now and again the Canadian even sang along despite admitting to Alfred that he hated singing with an actual effort put into it with a passion; there was something about it that he just did not enjoy - whether it was the strained feeling in his throat he was left with or simply the sound of his voice being forced into something above a quiet, whispery tone. The American managed to coax him into singing one or two songs, though, and was feeling rather proud for having been able to do so, especially when he was given no grief for doing so.

"C'mon Matt," Alfred whined, looking up at him and puffing his cheeks childishly, causing the Canadian to snort rather inelegantly. "Sing one more song with me, please? Do you know any Hey Rosetta! or something like that?"

"Al, I mean, I've already sang two songs and I-"

"Please Matt?" He pouted - Matthew had to do a double take - and batted his eyes. "It'll be fun and you know it."

Well, he had him there, which was for certain. Pausing briefly, he nodded as he repositioned his fingers on the keys and then started to play. "You can start singing if you recognize the song," he said in a quiet voice, smiling.

Alfred nodded, listening carefully for a moment before his face lit up with recognition. "_The rain starts off, and it wakes you up; you can't sleep with that racket on the roof. You get up slow, but you can't get going; it seems this morning the lowness has won. Did you stop to see? Mediocrity and your self-pity, they were stealing a kiss, look at their lips, still shiny. Did you notice that happiness happens less the more often you stop to find where it's been hiding. You say, 'It's not my fault that I get so low; there's a weight on my soul that just keeps pulling me down. It's pulling me down, I swear it'._"

And then Matthew cut in singing before the American could continue, a small smile on his face and his eyes focused upon the piano keys as he did. There was a dull blush on his cheeks, and the man seated on the floor thought it to be positively endearing - something about him, what it was he did not know, was dreadfully enchanting and he constantly found himself being taken off-guard by him. "_So come on by my house, and unleash me your monsters. With you at the helm, we'll go crashing around together. Don't mistake some initial hate for something more than cautionary; cause baby, this is love - I'll come down to hell to keep you company._" He drew a breath, eyes flickering over the keys for a moment. "_Of all the days we've got we should be screamin' out, of all the days we've got we should be screamin' out. Of all the days we've got we should be singing…_"

When the song changed tempo and shifted into something that sounded a little more cheerful, Alfred resumed singing when he was given a nod from Matthew, grinning as he did. "_What's to be done, one hundred and one in a tent for twelve with fingers and elbows in innocent ribs? We're minding our business, just minding our business instead of minding our minds. In times when the storms would ravage your clothes, the sound and the colour could render you blind and the throes of the nightmare could sing you to sleep. Then some foreign machine wakes you up at mean hour. But heaven is there, under your hair. It hides in the noon noise way up in the air like a bird on the breeze, waiting for you and maybe me, too._"

He watched for a brief moment as Matthew shifted on the bench, not once missing a beat while playing as the boy opened his mouth and resumed singing in his soft tenor: "_What's there to do? A hundred and two are out on the doorstep and they're pushin' the bolts back. They're wanting in, they're humming our hymn; everybody's singing like beautiful birds. In the trees, listen to it, it's easy man, you can do it, too. Sing: I know what I want, I know what I need 'cause it's the simplest thing. Yeah, it's the simplest thing, oh it's the simplest thing._" The boy was swaying slightly as he sang, a grin on his face and his eyes lit up. Tendrils of curly blonde hair bounced from the bobbing movement, and Alfred found himself positively enchanted by him. Running a hand through his hair, he turned away, swallowing thickly as he considered his thoughts as his cheeks heated up. "_Of all the nights we've got we should be stepping out, of all the nights we've got we should be stepping out. Of all the nights we touch we should be swinging around from house to house. If-_"

It was obvious that Matthew was taken off-guard when Alfred cut in and started singing again; there was a slight mistake in the piano playing as the tempo started to slow. When the American sang, his voice was a little quieter, and almost sad-sounding. "_If I could cheer you up it would mean so much, clowns in love and laughing it off, laughing it off, laughing it off._"

"_But it's not my fault that I get so low, but to drown you, too? That's a sick way to love, it's a sick way to love, it's a fucking sick way to love._" Matthew had almost hesitated while singing, swallowing dryly when the American had started that particular part with an unusual effort despite his voice having been so quiet. In fact, as his fingers left the keys and he placed his hands in his lap, wringing them slowly, the young man wasn't sure if he would have been able to continue on with singing. They locked eyes for a moment, and he almost didn't know what to do - the look on the American's face was so sombre, so utterly melancholy, that it was almost painful to keep focused on.

And then Alfred grinned. "That was so awesome," he said cheerfully. "We need to do shit like that more often." All Matthew could do was nod and smile weakly with agreement. The man took out his iPhone and glanced at it. "Hey, it's only three-thirty. Want to go for a drive or something?"

Matthew frowned. "What's the point of doing that?" he asked as he got up from the piano bench, quickly grabbing his sweater from the floor and hauling it down over his head. He did not miss, however, how Alfred's brow furrowed slightly, eyes lowering to the boy's forearms and then widening, a shocked look filling his expression. When Alfred looked up, mouth opened, they locked eyes once again, but this time the Canadian was no longer smiling. Instead his eyes were cold and blank, angry and threatening, forcing the American to look away with a single nod; it was as though from that single look he had been told not to go there - and had accepted it without a single question posed. Straightening out the sweater, he pursed his lips. "All you're doing is wasting gas and damaging the environment at the same time. So you're being, like, an unholy terror."

"Yeah, my dad used to say the same thing," Alfred said rolling his eyes and grabbing his car keys. "Except then, coming from him, it was all Charlie Brown-talk. _Womp womp womp womp_." He made it a point to roll his eyes, smirking, making talking gestures with both of his hands. "Going for a drive is better than sitting around here for a few hours and doing nothing. And you look like you're finally awake enough to handle sitting in a car for an hour or two without passing out cold on me in the passenger seat."

This, along with the self-satisfied smirk the other wore, caused Matthew to puff his cheeks and purse his lips all at once, blushing and rolling his eyes when Alfred made a sound that was a combination of cooing and laughing. "Fine," he muttered, following after the older man, hands tucked into the back pockets of his new jeans - okay, what could he say? He went on a bit of a shopping rampage when he got all that money, buying everything from new art supplies to new clothing and new odds and ends for his apartment. "Let me get my jacket."

"Oh, _please_," Alfred scoffed. "You won't need your jacket. My Cadillac is parked in a heated, underground garage and there are heated seats in it. I can assure you that you'll be warm enough." Wait, didn't he have a Mercedes Benz? Unless he had two cars. The young man being spoken to frowned deeply. Well wasn't he just full of expensive surprises.

Screwing up his nose, he sighed. "Okay, whatever Princess. I'll forgo the jacket just to appease you." He gave a small smirk when the American spluttered, sounding somewhat offended by the 'loving' nickname that was suddenly bestowed upon him with little to no grace whatsoever. "Close your mouth, you look like a guppy." And using two fingers, he promptly shut the lawyer's mouth with a gloating smirk.

Alfred shook his head slightly as he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment, his cows lick bobbing slightly from the movement. "Well, c'mon," he said with a sigh, stepping out through the door of his condo after he shut off the lights (thanks to Matthew's 'friendly' reminder) and set the alarm. The door was locked, and it made a sharp clicking sound as it was shut behind them when Matt left the room after toeing on his winter boots and lacing them up the rest of the way.

"We'll just drive around the outskirts of the city," the lawyer said as they walked down the hall, Alfred zipping up his black sweater as they went. "If we drive through Times Square and that area, we'll be there for a month of Sunday's trying to get from one side to the other. Which is, like, no good."

Trailing behind the older man quietly, Matthew sighed heavily. His idea of a good time wasn't exactly driving around, but hey, the man was right; sitting around did tend to get boring after a little bit. Just because it was winter it didn't mean they had to stay inside like a bunch of bumps on a log. As he walked behind the other, a small smile crossed Matt's face as he realized something rather crucial, and almost surprising: he was genuinely enjoying Alfred's company; the bickering, the laughing, the fact that the man could make him genuinely smile and feel like he was having an honest good time. Things like that did not happen very often. That, and he was different than Gilbert, somewhat - they both had obnoxious personalities, and they were both loud-mouths and such - but there was something about Alfred that was different, a different that he liked; Gilbert was a home body for the most part, or so to speak. When he had been in his late teens, you didn't have to ask twice to go exploring somewhere. But now, you had to twist his arm off and beat him with it. Alfred, on the other hand, he seemed to be the type that was a little adventurous - how many people actually wanted to go for a drive, just for the sake of driving, during the winter?

Frankly, Matthew liked adventurous.

Quickening his steps so that he walked alongside the Manhattan DA in place of behind him like a shadow, Matthew looked over to the other. "So where are we going, exactly?"

Alfred gave a shrug of indifference. "Who knows?" he asked with a side-ways smile. "Let's see where the road takes us. I just want to see something other than concrete and steel, even if it's only for an hour or two. There's no harm in that."

Actually, no; _he loved _adventurous.

Grinning, Matthew nodded, feeling a little more enthusiastic about the idea than what he had been before. "This is gonna be fun," he commented in an off-hand manner, watching as the button that would take them to the basement of the building - where the garage was, or so Alfred claimed - was pressed. The lawyer turned back at smiled softly at him, cheeks a little pinker than before, eyes bright behind his black, horn-rimmed glasses. The look on his face in turn caused the Canadian to blush a little, looking away and swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry as hell. What was that all about, precisely? Actually, no, he did not want an answer to that question any time soon.

Shaking his head, he simply got into the elevator behind the other, a sigh passing softly through his lips as the heavy doors slid shut and the lift lurched into motion, bringing them down eight flights this time instead of the seven he had taken to get up there. Squirming a little, he frowned as he looked around. It felt even smaller than before, but that was probably because Alfred was in there with him. Which also meant there would be less oxygen, should the worse come to pass.

"Hey, have you ever seen the first Resident Evil movie?"

Jumping a little, Matthew stared at Alfred and frowned for a moment. Then, he nodded - it had been ages since he had last seen it but, yes, he had. "Yeah. Why?"

"This elevator totally reminds me of the one in The Hive that crashed to the bottom of the shaft after missus got her head chopped off by the doors and ceiling when it started working again. After the T-Virus got unleashed and shit. You remember that part?"

Slowly he nodded. Matthew realized he was starting to feel rather sick, and very fast. "Oh, yeah." He gave a high-pitched, weak laugh and ran a hand through his hair. "Makes me feel a lot better about being in here, y'know?"

Alfred gave him an odd look. "You don't like elevators or something?"

Smiling a stupid smile, Matthew shook his head. "Not one little bit," he said weakly. "They scare the shit out of me."

The American gave him a tiny, sheepish smile. "Sorry?"

Matthew simply smacked him in the arm.

_Hard_.

Once the elevator touched down at the bottom of the shaft and they located Alfred's Cadillac - a 2010 Escalade ESV (and much to Matthew's relief it was a hybrid, thus meaning it wasn't totally destroying the environment as they knew it) - Alfred sped out of the garage and onto the main road, drumming his hands on the steering wheel as he instructed Matthew on how to hook up his iPod to the stereo system. Too many wires (even though there was only one he actually had to use) and even more buttons (this time, there was three he had to press), he decided somewhat viciously, muttering beneath his breath at a rapid pace that had the New Yorker slightly worried for his safety.

Sure enough, within a few minutes they had music playing, and the Canadian looked relatively smug for having successfully put it together despite being so obviously technologically retarded.

"So, are we avoiding driving through Times Square?" the artist questioned softly, adjusting his seatbelt as he righted himself in the seat.

Alfred looked with a pointed annoyance at the younger man. "We are treating it as though it has a combination the Avian Flu, Mad Cow Disease, H1N1 and the Bubonic Plague. It's very delicate, and we just need to get the fuck away from it and as far away as possible."

Matthew nodded sagely, as though what the American had said actually made one lick of sense to him.

Which it had not, but that's beside the point.

Pulling off of the main thoroughfare and onto a side route that he knew would take them well out of the city limits with at least half an hour of steady driving and stop-sign running, Alfred turned up the music a little, but no so loud that they would have to shout to be heard. But, from the looks of it, as Matthew bobbed his head and sang along to what was playing, and as the driver drummed his hands on the steering wheel and did the same, that neither of them had the intentions of talking just yet. Which was fine, when observing how relaxed Matthew appeared to be for once and from taking in the stupid smile that was spread across Alfred's face - an obvious product from being in the same vehicle as the Canadian and the two of them sharing the same oxygen without the petit Canuck ripping his head off and taking a metaphorical shit down his throat.

Despite the time of day, and the fact that it was Saturday, there were a surprisingly low number of vehicles on the road - which, in Alfred's glorious opinion, made speeding a lot easier and safer. Although it was hard to justify 'speeding' as 'safe', but to each their own, really. But, surprisingly enough, despite his reckless driving and his love for speed, he didn't run as many stop signs as Matthew thought he would. Brownie points for him there, at least.

"Man, why are the streets so fuckin' deserted today?" Alfred commented idly as he took a turn, the smallest of frowns upon his face as he furrowed his brow. A sign nearby said that they were three miles from the interstate.

Giving him a wry smirk, Matthew shrugged. "It's cold, it's January, and it's three days after New Year's Day. Everyone is probably still hung over."

The American gave an arrogant sniff. "Pussies," he said calmly, pressing slightly on the break as they drove up the on-ramp, hauling onto the eight-lane interstate where there was a considerable amount of traffic when compared to what they had spent the past twenty-odd minutes driving through. "_I_ ain't hung over still, so why should they be?"

"Perhaps they partied harder than you did?" Matt offered politely.

Taking his eyes off the road for a brief moment, he gave Matthew a Look. Not just a look, but a Look. One that said 'you have to be joking, right?' Ducking his head as the other turned to look back to where it was he was driving - which was currently up the rear end of a tiny little Smart Car (which Alfred aggressively called a 'Stupid Car' and the Pruis beside it 'An ugly-ass lunchbox') - Matthew found himself smiling again, a little softer than usual. There was just something he liked about him, and be damned if he was not having a good time despite how mundane every little thing they brought up was.

And then he started to laugh outright when, of all songs possible, something by Katy Perry came on. "_Really_, Al?" he asked, still laughing. "Katy Perry?"

Cheeks puffed out and his brow furrowed, he mumbled a 'but she's awesome' before he simply chose to turn up the music to drown out the other's laughter, despite how sweet and clear it sounded to him. "Shu'up," he mumbled, slamming down on the gas as he swerved out around the Smart Car that was seriously beginning to get on his nerves, flashing the driver a middle finger as he went before he hauled back in front of the other driver, easing off on the gas just a little.

Shaking his head, Matthew chuckled a little, running his hand through his hair and singing along to the music again, despite the fact that it was Katy Perry and the fact that he was not a fan of her. In the least. Then, he picked up the iPod and started going through the songs, lips pursed and a look of concentration upon his lean, pale-skinned face. Indigo eyes positively lit up and he settled on one song in particular, cranking the music and earning laughter from Alfred in the process. He rounded of the driver and grinned, "_Darlin' you got to let me know: should I stay or should I go? If you say that you are mine, I'll be here 'til the end of time. So you got to let me know, should I stay or should I go?_"

Laughing and shaking his head, Alfred lightly shoved Matthew's face away; hand covering the younger's mouth as he grinned stupidly. "Please, don't sing; you're killing The Clash! You can't just _do_ that!"

Licking the other's hand and earning a yelp of disgust that he smiled smugly at, the Canadian pursed his lips and batted his eyes. "Oh really?"

"Yeah really," Alfred grinned as he wiped his now-slobbery hand off on the passanger's sweater. He was rewarded with a yelp of disgust and a flailing hand striking him on the shoulder rather weakly.

"Don't do that!" Matt whined, slapping tanned hands away and scowling, although his lips were trying to smile and it was a winning battle they were fighting.

"Why not? It's your own damn spit."

"Well it's absolutely disgusting!"

"Jeeze, suck it up, Princess."

"Don't call me princess! It's _gross._ How would you like it if someone wiped your spit all over your good sweater?"

"Whiner."

"Hoser."

"Brat."

"Jackass."

"Pipsqueak."

"Overpaid, crazy Yankee."

"Batshit, tree-hugging Canuck."

"Only a third batshit, thank you," Matthew sniffed, this time unable to keep the smile from his face.

His companion took one look over at him before he burst out laughing altogether, wiping at his eyes as he took out a cigarette and placing it to his lips. It was when he was in the process of lighting it up when he caught Matt's scowl. "What?" he asked thickly, lowering the lighter a little.

"That's disgusting," he groused. "Can't you wait 'til we get back to have a smoke? I don't want to be in here breathing in that shit, got it?"

"Well, it's my vehicle, so I can do what I want to," he said petulantly.

Matthew frowned a little, scowling. "Well, if you had any respect, you'd put it away."

For a moment they glared at each other until the driver sighed and put his cigarette away, slouching down in the seat a little, lips puckered childishly as he scowled out the window at nothing in particular. Matthew, on the other hand, had a smug look on his face, obviously feeling victorious. Then, the haughty expression softened into something that was a little more on the side of gentle and he grinned, turning his gaze back to the window. In the distance, he could see forest, and his face lit up. "It's been ages since I've been out of New York," he said in an off-hand way.

Alfred glanced at him and smiled. "Well, we can't go too far today - maybe just drive for another hour or so before we turn back," he commented. "But maybe we can go for a drive again and actually, like, get away from the city completely?"

Looking at the other, he nodded slowly. "That would be awesome," Matt said. "And we could, like, bring a shit-ton of food with us and tons of music and just have, like, a miniature road trip."

"I like how you think," Alfred said with a grin, pinching his cheek and absolutely loving how both of Matt's cheeks turned a lovely hue of scarlet, prompting his hand to get slapped away and a slew of insults (coming from both parties) to follow the action.

And as far as either of them were concerned, this seemed like it might actually go somewhere other than down a drain.

When Matthew glanced at the driver once more, he felt his cheeks warm up again and he continued to smile out through the windshield, head turning slightly so he could watch as trees flew by them rapidly in a blur of evergreen pine needles.

"What time do you wanna hang out 'til?" Alfred asked, voice wavering a little. The pitch his speech had taken caused the passenger to glance over and his eyes to widen. The man looked almost anxious upon asking, and he seemed to be holding the steering wheel even tighter than before. It was then the Canadian realized that his new-found friend probably didn't want him to leave as soon as they got back into the city. Feeling warmth burning the tips of his ears, he squirmed a little.

"Well, I can get the ten o'clock bus home or something, or like a taxi," he said with a shrug, trying to ignore the burning sensation in his ears that was beginning to spread back to his neck and cheeks. It was a pleasant feeling, he decided, but he also did not want to look like a tomato, either.

"I could give you a ride home if that's better," his friend (the thought made Matthew squirm with both delight and disgust, considering how the day before he was convinced he absolutely hated the man he was currently sharing oxygen with) offered.

For a moment, he contemplated the proposal. "Yeah, sure. Sounds good," he chirped pleasantly. At the same time, he wondered if Alfred even knew where the hell he was driving to. "Maybe we could watch some movies when we get back."

"I have a piss-load of zombie movies."

"28 Days Later?"

"You even need to ask?"

"Bring. It. On."

* * *

This is the start of a beautiful friendship you guys. 'sforlater. =3= And, I highly reccomend looking up the song 'The Simplest Thing' by Hey Rosetta! Just add this in: watch?v=OQmHNKwmD9E and that'll give you the song~ -hearts-

Ffff thanks for all the reviews, faves and alerts, guys. 333 Until next time~


	12. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER TWELVE.**

Looking down over the street before him, arms folded across his chest as he leant against the window, Matthew had a small frown on his lips as he waited to be picked up by Greg. For the next six days he was going to be staying with Greg and his wife, Jade, while he painted their soon-to-be daughter's bedroom. They had offered him a room in the upstairs apartment in their home - they normally rented the space out, but recently had simply closed it to others and left it fully furnished in case there was ever someone that stayed with them that had a family. So, he had accepted the chance to stay in a nice little apartment, and get paid for it as well. Really, there was nothing there that he could complain about (not that he would complain about it, but all the same there are people that would).

A duffle bag with six changes of clothing was set on the floor at his feet and he gave a boredom-fuelled yawn, carding a hand through his curly hair, shaking the locks out and finding slight amusement in how the bounced a little at the motion. Waiting. He hated waiting.

It had been a while since he had spent any more than two nights out of his apartment and with someone for such long stretch of time, and to say the very least, the young man was anxious. And it wasn't just a 'this is making me nervous' sort of anxious. Because that kind of anxiety was for pussies, and people that had not even the slightest problem of the mental and/or emotional sort. Anything could go wrong while he was there - someone could break into this apartment and steal everything that was his; the place could catch fire; the microwave could explode; the dead hamster that was encrusted into the inside of said microwave could come back from the dead. _Anything _was a possibility at this point. Anything at all.

_This_ was on the way to becoming a full-blown panic attack. With the heart palpitations, the chest that felt like there was a binding on it, the dry, cottony mouth and the overwhelming fear that everything around him was closing in on him. The thoughts of something both mundane and more than likely highly improbable were all they were, and he was already freaking out.

Because that was how things usually worked for Matthew. No one could say he ever did anything small scale, not a fucking chance. Only underachievers did that sort of thing. And, although he may have been a bottom dweller worthy of his own hour-long special on the Discovery Channel, it did not mean he was an underachiever.

He was one step above it or so, but not a full-out slacker with minimal motivation.

He wasn't _that _bad. Sheesh.

Popping two Valium tablets into his mouth, he dry-swallowed them and sighed heavily. For a moment, he felt one clog up in his throat and he swallowed quickly, several times, until the feeling of discomfort left him altogether. Though he knew he should not have been taking two extra ones when he had only taken them three hours ago, and that the other two pills still would not have been dissolved completely into his system, he just _needed_ to take them. Needed the extra dosage of calm they would leave him with. It was getting a little distressing, he knew, but he also knew that without his pills, he would crash and burn like there was no tomorrow.

'_Oh, pills,_' he thought coldly, _'where would I be without you?_' It was a question that was better left unanswered, he figured, so it would stay that way.

Letting his head thump against the window, and hard, he sighed and ran his hand through his hair again. What had he done to himself? A slight anger was beginning to build in his chest, sitting there and simmering, bubbling and churning in a way that was almost painful as he realized just how disgusted he was. It was pathetic, he noted, how he was stooping to such a low level. A level he had seen people sink to when he had lived on the streets. A level he told himself he would never return to, and now that he realized he was, a small knot of self-loathing was beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach as he stood there and simply remembered.

The first group of people he had fallen into with were the worst ones imaginable. Drug addicts, prostitutes, thieves. Murderers, some of them. The stereotypical scum of the Big Apple. While with them, he had seen some pretty terrifying things. He had seen murders committed, had seen several people raped and disposed of like they were nothing - they were the ones he managed to help, and when he did, he was surprised by the gratitude that was shown by the 'victims'; he would have thought them to be too disgusted, too hysterical, too angry to accept his help when he had just been stood by, trying not to watch, trying not to listen, trying not to vomit from it all. In those several months, he had gotten high on LSD, cocaine and Oxycotton more times than what he could count and had done several other, relatively _unmentionable_, things when he had been in desperate need of money for food. Only when he had nothing and needed something did he resort to It.

A shudder of disgust and nausea passed through him as he recalled every little thing he had done in those first few, critical months, the months that had really started his downward spiral, and then he hitched up his bags over his shoulder when he saw Greg's black SAAB Turbo-X pulled up in front of his building. He gave a small wave when Greg got out of the vehicle and waved to him, to let him know he was there. When the older man got back into the car, Matthew stepped away from the window.

"No sense in dwelling," he mumbled to himself as he stepped out of his apartment, locking the door behind him, shutting his eyes briefly and biting his lower lip as he quickly did a mental inventory of the contents of his bag. Pills, check. Clothing, check. Sketchbook and pencils, check. Some small detail brushes, check.

A shuddery sigh; he was ready to go.

There was suddenly a voice speaking beside him, and Matthew practically jumped out of his skin, eyes going wide and a hand flying to his mouth to smother the yelp he almost let out. The speaker was a tiny, old woman that did even come up to his shoulder and waddled when she walked. White hair was pinned back under a scarf, and her tanned skin sagged in some places. Deep brown eyes were bright and sharp, and she edged forward, watching the youth through her thick glasses, lips pursed before she started speaking again.

"Good morning, Señora Covas," he said with a polite smile as the woman rambled on in Spanish, brown eyes bright and her hands gesturing wildly as she talked in what was utter gibberish to the unilingual Canadian. "I trust you're well this morning?"

For a moment the elderly Spanish woman stood there, just watching him with a 'what the hell did you just say?' sort of look on her face before she seemed to shrug it off. And so she continued to talking animatedly, making the blonde haired youth laugh softly and smile; while he was loathe of the building he lived in, he couldn't help but adore some of the tenants - like Señora Covas, for example.

"¿_Qué hace tú_?"

Both of them looked up, Señora Covas frowning slightly as she pursed her lips at the young man that had stepped out of the apartment across from his - the one the elderly Spanish woman lived in. He stood there with one hand on his hip and a wry smile on his face, and started speaking to her in rapid Spanish.

The woman made a 'bah' sound, a rapid spiel of Spanish leaving her thin cracked lips as she tossed her head back and forth in a manner that was almost mocking of him, flapping her hands dismissively at the man Matthew now assumed was her son, or possibly a grandson. It caused the young men to smile, although the son had to cover his mouth to hide the expression. The stubby little woman rolled her eyes and huffed through her nose, then gestured with her hands for the Canadian to lean down. When he did, she took his face in her gnarled, tanned hands and pressed two, firm kisses to either of his cheeks before waddling back off into her room, smacking her grandson - he looked too young to be her son, which was for sure - on the arm and muttering venomously beneath her breath in her native language.

For a moment the two just stood there, Matthew feeling his ears slowly beginning to catch fire and spread to the rest of his face and neck. Her son stood there, as well, somewhat flabbergasted - whether it was from his grandmother kissing Matthew's cheek, or the words she had said, it was hard to tell. Slowly, the other man started to chuckle, and the Canadian found himself joining in softly, hand going to cover his mouth.

They looked at each other after a slight pause, eyes so blue they were almost purple meeting with richly hued brown optics, and then they both burst out laughing.

"I think nana quite likes you," the grandson said once they had finally stopped laughing. He wiped at his eyes and then grinned at the Canadian that was flushed in the cheeks.

"Well, Señora Covas is a very likable person," Matthew said with a chuckle as he hitched his bag back up on his shoulder. "Even if it's impossible for me to understand her."

The grandson chuckled before shaking his head lazily, running a hand through hair that was pulled into dreadlocks. "Sorry 'bout that though, kid. Sometimes she just likes to wander about and tease the innocent guys on this floor." Then he paused for a moment. "You're the only other tenant on this floor, aren't you?"

"Yup. Just me and me alone."

A pause.

"Well, let's just hope she doesn't think she needs to find you someone to marry anytime soon."

More laughter, and Matthew turned to head down out over the fire escape, nearly screaming like a little girl when one of the rusted steps gave way from beneath his foot. Chunks of corroded metal dropped down as he wrenched his foot out from the hole he had created. When he glanced down - something he promised himself that he would not ever do - he felt his stomach churn violently, bile rising up into his throat. A several floor drop straight down onto rock hard pavement. He swallowed back the vomit and continued on down, a little slower and a lot more cautious this time around in his steps. Were there not laws about keeping fire escapes in proper condition?

More than likely there were, but his landlord apparently was not part of the group of people/everyone in New York that had to abide by building codes.

Jogging over to Greg's SAAB, he smiled weakly at the other man. "Sorry bout the delay," he said sheepishly, setting his duffle bag at his feet. "I got held up by the elderly lady across the hall from me. She likes to talk to me in Spanish despite the fact that I don't understand a lick of it."

Greg chuckled as he pulled back onto the road, glancing briefly at his passenger. "Sounds like a charming woman."

"Oh, she's a complete and utter doll, and she made me this lovely scarf for Christmas," he said, gesturing to the bright red and white scarf he was wearing with his jacket. "Just a little crazy when she goes off on her rants. But her daughter is usually there, as well, so it's not too bad."

"Did she knit that herself?" Greg asked idly, driving out around a taxi before pulling back completely into his lane, muttering darkly beneath his breath about idiot cab drivers. He was like Alfred when it came to road rage, or it would seem that way. Or maybe it was just a gene all New Yorkers seemed to share; Gilbert and Ludwig were like it as well, (especially the latter, for the love of Christ - he could get so bad sometimes Matthew wouldn't even get in a car with the man) and the both of them were New Yorkers through and through.

Terrifying creatures they were, New Yorkers.

Blinking slightly, realizing he had completely spaced out (which meant the Valium was finally working its magic on him), he nodded and laughed. "She knits everything. She even knitted me this amazing sweater; it was last Christmas she did that."

Greg appeared to be studying the boy next to him as they were stopped at a red light, expression serious as he took in the look on the other's face. Eyes were hard and studious, and the man had turned slightly in his seat as if he were trying to get a better look at the artist seated beside him. Paling slight, Matt chewed his lips and glanced eyes, eyes turning downwards behind his glasses as he felt the scrutiny of the other.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "You seem to be a little … _spacey_." Despite the drug coursing through his system and dulling his mind, the Canadian knew a euphemism when he heard one; it was just the business man's soft way of asking if he was whacked out on drugs more than likely. And it wasn't at all a lie - God he hated euphemisms.

"Oh, I'm just sleepy," Matthew said quickly, laughing weakly with a smile on his face that felt as fake as anything as he blinked, feeling sluggish. Yeah, they were working. "I didn't get that much sleep last night, so now it's starting to catch up with me, y'know?"

He was given a look that was somewhat suspicious, but by a small act of Grace, nothing was said and Matthew sunk back into the plush passenger seat of the SAAB that was currently cruising down Broadway, the driver hugging the curb and preparing to make a turn down 82nd Street. If anything, he wanted to sigh with relief and rub his face as a way to metaphorically 'wipe away the stress'. But something like that could be taken poorly, and somewhat misconstrued, so he did not and instead left his hands to rest limp and idle in his lap, fiddling with the hem of his beige parka, fingers occasionally moving up to toy with the ends of his scarf.

When they pulled up in front of Greg's place, he did not withhold his sigh this time around. Who, pray tell, had made it their duty to shove all the wealthy and influential people into his life all in one shot, exactly? First Alfred, and now McKnight's son - the business mogul with ExxonMobil, some massive oil company Matthew knew essentially nothing about other than the fact that it made a shit-ton of loot on a monthly basis and had wells just about everywhere. These people were just popping up out of nowhere. Kind of like daisies, the same way the Huns did in the movie Mulan.

The young man puffed his cheeks as he stepped out of the car, hoisting his duffle bag up over his shoulder (despite how it felt like the muscles in his arms had turned into useless sacks of Jell-O) and plodded after his host and the man that would be his employer for the next week. The snow and ice beneath his boots crunched loudly and he grimaced, slowing his already lethargic steps as to avoid slipping and taking a fall on the ice - a rather common place occurrence during the winter months, the Canadian found.

Door held open for him upon reaching the top step, a blast of warmth that smelt like cooked chicken and an undertone of cleaning solvents hitting him before he even had a chance to observe the porch he had stepped into.

As he set down his bag, he bit on the inside of his cheek and swallowed against the burning swell in his throat, the pained feeling that was clogging the space above his heart. He hated homes. Houses, he could handle, but he hated homes with a passion that was almost a rival to the loathing he felt towards most people - whether he knew them or not.

A home insinuated a loving family, a family that would stay by and watch over one another for the reason being that they cared for one another. A home meant good memories; a home meant laughter, warmth, closeness. With a home came a family, whether it was a small one or a big one, whether it was a complete one or a broken one that needed a small tube of super glue and a roll of duct tape to make it all better. One person or ten people, a family was a family and a home was a home - as long as you had someone to share it with, someone that meant something.

The last time Matthew Williams had been home, he had been fourteen and living on a farm outside of Grand Prairie, Alberta.

Hands clenching into fists and then unclenching, he took off his boots and then set them meticulously against the wall, heels facing in and toes lined up before removing his jacket and setting it on a hanger, closing the pockets and zipping up the front of it as he hung the red and white scarf around it, knitted for him by a certain Spanish woman, before he set it in the closet. When he turned, picking up his bag and setting it on his shoulder, he found the other to be staring at him with a look of curiosity and amusement, intermingled into something odd that made Matt want to laugh a little.

"OCD?" Greg McKnight asked wryly.

Matthew held his fingers apart by about a centimetre. "Just a tad," he said in a flat voice, lips curling into a smirk that looked oddly out of place on his blank face.

Greg snorted, shaking his head lightly. "Let me show you to the upstairs apartment," he said, gesturing with a vague hand-flap in the direction of the stairs. "It's not really an apartment, per se, we just usually rented it out to people we know that need somewhere to stay; we have no use for a third floor, so we did it up with a kitchen and everything. You should be fairly comfortable for the next week or so, however long you want to stay, actually."

The Canadian gave the man a sidelong glance and then nodded, adjusting the bag slightly and following him up over the steep flight of hardwood stairs that were nearly black in colour and were covered in a deep, forest green rug. A pale hand touched briefly off an ornate cherry wood rail, the wood beneath his calloused fingertips icy to the touch, and deathly smooth, not a single flaw to be found in the carving. Eyes roamed from the plush carpet he was walking on, cautious of each stair he treaded on (the incident from earlier was still fresh in his mind), and over to the sparkling chandelier, the crystals dangling from the polished brass sparkling and casting their reflection on the ceiling they were now passing, making their way onto the second floor.

Pausing before turning to head up the other flight, where there was a door blocking it off part-way as if for privacy, Greg gestured down the hall. "Right down at the end is the baby's room, and the room next to that is mine and Jade's. On the left is my office, the bathroom, a guest room and a storage closet, because every hallway needs a storage closet, right?" He paused for a brief moment. "I'll show you the baby's room later, or you can come down and get started whenever you feel like you've settled in enough; you look like you should probably sleep first."

All Matthew did was nod and smile a little; he had to admit, he was excited about painting the infant's room - he had never painted a bedroom before, so let's just call it a learning experience. And one thing he did not like doing was limiting himself to painting in one medium. Canvas, wall, sidewalks, ceilings, anything that was an available surface for him to paint on, he use it and would do it.

"Now, I'll leave you here to your own devices to check out the apartment," he said with a grin, clapping Matthew on the back, causing his breath to momentarily leave him, gasping in shock. "When you're ready, come downstairs and we'll discuss your payment in full."

And so he was left there alone in the hallway, bag on his shoulder, his head muddled and heavy, and wondering all the while if this man was a Godsend or not.

(Him and Alfred both, really)

Promptly, the Canadian pushed that thought away as he lumbered up over the stairs, grumbling about how the strap of the bag was digging into his bony shoulders and it was just so damn well uncomfortable and that taking a metal shovel right to the kisser probably wouldn't be as uncomfortable.

Actually, that was probably a slight exaggeration.

Well, sort of.

Okay, it was a giant, fat, lie but goddamnit, it was uncomfortable, alright?

Pushing open the door with his sock-clad toe, he poked his head into the space almost hesitantly, cringing as the hinges squeaked. So he stood there, just looking in like an idiot, doing nothing at all. From what he could see, the entire floor had been remodelled into an apartment - just like he had been told. The kitchen, dining room and living room were all interconnected and decorated lavishly with antique-like furniture. On the wall across from the sofa, he realized a horror that was mingled with delight, was a wall-mounted LCD television, and in the corners of the room were little speakers - surround sound.

"Well fuck me sideways and call me Bubba," Matthew stated in a flat voice, propping a hand on a narrow hip.

"I'm sure I could have that arranged for you, Mr. Williams," a husky, female voice from behind him purred, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

A shriek was startled out of Matthew and he lunged forward, clutching his bag to his chest as he whirled around, eyes wide. He panted lightly as he started to feel the heat of embarrassment creep up into his cheeks. Jade was stood there, a hand on her large, round stomach as she laughed, eyes bright with a cruel sort of mirth.

"Startle you?" she teased lightly, stepping into the space as she navigated herself around the door.

"J-Just a b-bit," he stuttered in a high-pitched voice, doing his best to relax and slowly get his heart back on its leash.

"Sorry about tha'-" she did not sound at all apologetic, but because she was pregnant, Matthew was willing to let it slide "-I just wanted to give you the keys to th' place. But when I saw you standin' there, I couldn't help myself."

It was then, he noticed, that she spoke with a slight accent - it almost sounded like a mix of Cockney and Scottish, and with her bright red hair, startling green eyes and pale skin, it was not that much of a surprise (how had he not noticed that when they had first met?). Jade must have caught his inquiring look, for she smiled knowingly, slightly crooked teeth flashing briefly into view. "I grew up near the Scotland-England border," she said lightly, giving a slight shrug as she set the keys to the place down on the granite countertop. "I spent a good lot of time Canterbury, though, living with my cousin and his mum. Now, come down in a little bit; dinner will be ready in a bit and I plan on fattening you up over the next week like you wouldn't believe."

Charming, really. But at least very well-intentioned of her.

It was just going to take a year of Sundays to do so.

Smiling slightly, he nodded. "So, when did you come to New York?" he asked.

"Some ten or eleven years ago, when m'cousin Arthur moved back with th' wife he had at th' time," she said with a smile, turning to head back downstairs with her hand resting on her stomach. A slight look of discomfort passed across her face and then she chuckled, rubbing a small circle on one particular spot on her stomach. Then she pointed at him, voice firm and expression serious. "Be down in an hour, got it? You'll want to eat when it's hot and freshly out of th' oven, and be damned if you leave here without putting on at least ten pounds on those bones of yours; I've seen supermodels with more fat on their thighs than what you've got on that whole damn body o' yours."

By the time she had left, Matthew had successfully turned every shade of red known to man, and including a few that had yet to be named.

Flopping down on the sofa and sprawling out there, the Canadian let out a heavy sigh, carsing his hand through his hair as he let his legs dangle over the arm, staring up at the stuccoed ceiling overhead. It was nothing but silent, the cold winter breeze coming in through an open window and even the curtains seemed to be put on mute as the fluttered in the gentle wind. It smelt fresh in there, and as his door was still open he could still smell the chicken dinner that was cooking downstairs. A sigh of content left him and he folded his arms behind his head, hooking one leg over the other as he stretched off a little further, eyes fluttering shut.

He felt in a way he had not felt in a long time: safe.

In his apartment in Brooklyn, the man did not feel safe. Most certainly not if he kept a fully-loaded gun in both his bedroom and in a drawer in the kitchen, that was for certain. But the locks on his front door did not work properly, there were loose wires hanging down in one corner of the living room (which he had creatively hidden by putting a hanging plant in front of them so you could not actually see them unless you went over and looked around the greenery. There were loose tiles on both the ceiling and the floor, part of the roof in his bedroom sagged, and frankly, that goddamn microwave was a nuclear meltdown waiting to happen - Cherynobyl had nothing on that shit there. And that was just the apartment itself, that did not account for how unsafe he felt in the building itself and in the surrounding nerghbourhood.

With a sigh, he stood back up, stretching lazily as he grabbed his bag and wandered in towards the bedroom area. A bathroom to the right (when he looked in and saw that there was a rather lovely claw-foot bathtub and a shower in there, he may or may not have wanted to cry), the bedroom on the left and a storage closet on the right. A smile appeared on his face and he sighed slightly. At the far end of the hall, there was an open space with a large window that overlooked the backyard, curtains dark in colour and made of a thick material. An armchair was positioned by the window, and lining the walls were bookshelves. Matthew inhaled sharply and bit his lower lip as his eyes went impossibly wide. It was like a miniature library.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him, and he ran to the bathroom, going straight to the sink and running the hot water with the tape slightly opened. After a moment, steam rose from it. Of course the house would have hot running water, was he an idiot for thinking otherwise. Letting his fingers remain under the steady flow from the tap until he had to jerk them back out when it got a little too hot for him, he shook his head, a tiny laugh leaving him. He had almost expected the place not to have running hot water - an idiot was what he was, really.

And it was that moment when he realized that when the end of the week rolled by, he would not want to leave and go back to his own shitty little apartment, but in place he would want to stay here.

Shaking his head of the thoughts, he smirked coldly, shutting off the tap and crossing the hall to enter the room he would be sleeping in for the next week. Setting his bag down on the neatly made bed, he started to take his clothing out, placing it all on the bed before going over to the closet and hanging his pants up. Then he moved to one of the dressers and started putting his shirts and everything away, stepping back with a slight huff, hands on his hips. The window was large, letting in an amazing amount of natural light and like the little nook; the window overlooked the garden below. There was a balcony attached to this window, as well, and he grinned. While it was covered with snow now, it must have been nice to go out on during summer nights and look out at everything.

Making his way across the room, he flopped down on the bed, crashing onto his side and snuggling down in amongst the blankets. The mattress was so damn comfortable - so much better than sleeping on a proverbial bed of nails, which was for certain. Humming, he hauled the blankets up over his body and curled into the mattress, blanket tucked in firmly around his thin frame as he almost immediately passed out, the effects of the extra Valium in his system, his body's exhaustion and just everything else causing him to just drop off to sleep.

With the way his body just sunk down into the thick mattress, and the way the blankets practically smothered him, it was no wonder at all.

It was some time later when he crawled out of the bed, groggy and slightly addled, glancing around the room as he tried to remember just where the hell he was at again. Ah, but the _mattress_. It was too comfy for him to properly care, and so he just sunk even further into it, the thick comforter pulled up over his chin and two pillows propped beneath his head of blonde hair that was stuck off wildly.

"You comin' down to eat?"

Jolting and rolling over after the haze left his head, Matthew stared over at Greg and then, as he was about to answer, yawned instead. He felt his face heat up when the business man laughed. "Yeah," he said, masking a second yawn, voice a mumble. "Gimme a sec 'n I'll be down." Instead of making a move to get out of the bed, he curled back down into mattress and brought the pillow to his chest, snuggling into like there was no tomorrow, eyes slipping shut again as he yawned.

"Nuh-uh," came the response to this bodily action. Matthew tensed and gave a childish whine. "Jade will come up here and beat your ass, kid. I'm doing a favour and saving you." And then with all the cruelty known to man and his peers, the blankets were ripped unceremoniously from his body, a shriek startled out of him along with a prolonged moan of 'no'.

Like, think an epic 'falling to the bottom of the cliff' _noooooo._

Really fucking epic.

Curling in on his body and puffing his cheeks spitefully, he groaned again before straightening out and stretching, adjusting the frames of his glasses which were practically moulded to his face now from having slept on them. "Fine, fine, I'm up," he grumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and yawning again, running his hand through his hair to try and get the thick knots out of it.

"There's a good boy," Greg snorted, backing out of the room and heading to the front door. "Dinner's been ready for a while now, so just grab your plate out of the oven."

Matthew frowned, running out of the room and staring down the hall at the other. "Wait, what?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "How long have I been asleep then?"

Greg turned partially. "Well, dinner's been cooked for about three hours now," he said with a mild shrug. "I came up about two hours ago, but you were solid, so I just left you there to sleep. But then Jade kind of reamed me out about ten minutes ago and told me to come up here and get you." He chuckled at this. "Woman has a fist of steel. Sometimes I wonder if she's related to Margaret Thatcher and isn't telling me anything…"

At this Matthew laughed a little as well, rubbing his neck as he followed after the taller man. A four hour nap. Holy. Shit. And in that time frame, the effects of his pills had worn off, which he was somewhat thankful for; his head felt clear and his body felt light again. He exhaled slowly, shutting the door to the apartment as he followed Greg down over the narrow stairs, one hand on the rail and the other on the grayish-blue painted wall.

Once down in the kitchen, Jade greeted him with a wry smile. "Oh, well Sleeping Beauty finally decided to wake up," she teased, going over to the oven and hauling on a pair of mitt, opening it and taking out the plate that still had some steam rising for it. "About time you did; I was going to eat this myself."

Chuckling, Matthew sat down at the table, accepting the plate with a small murmur of thanks. "I wouldn't have protested if you did," he said, picking up his fork and knife and cutting off a small piece of chicken, sampling it for a brief moment.

His words earned him a swift smack across the back of the head with an oven mitt, and he snorted, nearly choking on the food he was in the process of swallowing.

"Matthew?"

Immediately he glanced up, finally just noticing the man sat across from him. He was a small man, with messy blonde hair, green eyes that were as bright as grass and the same colour as nuclear waste would be in the cartoons, and he had these _unholy_ things for eyebrows. In fact, when he realized he was staring at the hairy little monsters, his face flush and he quickly focused on the rest of his face instead. There was a look of confusion on his waxy visage and he leaned forward, peering at the startled Canadian before him.

Why was Alfred's older brother sitting in Greg's kitchen?

Unless-

No. No _fucking _way.

"You … you're Alfred's brother," Matt said, setting down his fork and leaning back slightly, head tilted a bit to the side.

"Yes," he said, nodding. "Arthur Kirkland." The man gestured to the woman standing by and observing with mild amusement. "I'm Jade's cousin. Ah … how do you know Greg, precisely?"

"Family friend," he said quickly. "My mother knew his father, and so he called me up a few days ago to come in and paint the baby's room."

Arthur nodded, smiling. "Well, it's been a pleasure to run into you again, Matthew. Such a small world we live in, even in the biggest of cities, wouldn't you agree?"

Soft laughter. "Yes, I do quite agree with that, actually." Small fucking world, alright. This made his soul die a little on the inside. And so, with that opinion fresh in his mind, he returned to eating in silence while Arthur and Jade returned to whatever conversation it was they had been engaged in prior to him entering the kitchen.

"Now it's my turn to ask," Greg said, hauling out a chair for Jade to sit in as he took his own seat. "How do you know ol' fairy pants here?"

Matthew practically choked again while Arthur turned an interesting shade of red.

"I'm friends with his brother, Alfred."

"Friends?"

"With _Alfred_?"

Both Arthur and Greg looked at one another before simultaneously turning their gazes back to the Canadian.

He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, shifting with slight discomfort beneath their gazes. "Well, yeah. I think we're friends at least…"

"Miraculous," Arthur muttered after a pause, shaking his head and picking up his mug, blowing on the steam a little before taking a dainty sip. "Bloody fucking miraculous is what it is."

"Though I still express my condolences for you, Mr. Kirkland," Matthew mumbled, forking some more food into his mouth before he could say anything else as the Briton spluttered, choking on his drink as he started laughing. "And I cannot help but express them for myself, as well."

"So, friends with Jonesy boy, eh?" Greg McKnight asked as he leant back in the chair, draping one arm over the back as he drummed his fingertips on the table's surface. "How did you get to know him?"

"Only because he's a persistent jerk off," the Canadian mumbled darkly, sipping from his drink and smirking slightly. "I was planning on ignoring him for the rest of my life, but nope. He decided he wanted to be my friend, and well, I kind of like the dude now. He's a fun guy, and an excellent conversationalist." Matt gave a shrug of indifference. "He's best kind, and actually, we're hanging out again later on in the week."

Arthur gave a sudden cough and all three of the individuals in the kitchen stared at the fourth, confusion on the faces. "Oh, terribly sorry," the British judge said smugly, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across the front of his diamond-patterned sweater vest. "I had an ulterior motive stuck in my throat. Dreadfully uncomfortable, wouldn't you agree? So I just _had _to get it out."

If Matthew had never before heard sarcasm in his life, this was it.

Chuckling and shaking his head, the Canadian resumed eating while the other three turned back to their conversation, laughter occasionally filling the kitchen as one of them said something that the other two found particularly funny. Once he had scraped the last bit of potato and dressing from the plate the young man stood, bringing his dishes over to the sink and sliding them down into the pan filled with hot, soapy water. Grabbing the cloth, he rolled up his sleeves and started scrubbing the dishes that were in there, humming quietly to himself as he washed his own plate and the other dishes that were in there.

There was a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned to look, he saw Jade was there and frowning lightly. "Matthew, you don't need to do the dishes for me," she said quietly.

He shook his head. "Don't worry about it," he said, not having to lower his voice to a whisper considering that was what he usually spoke in anyway. "I don't mind doing the dishes, so you can go and sit down." When she did not move, he made a shooing motion with one of his hands, suds and water dripping from his fingertips. "Go on, go sit down and I'll finish these and put them all away; it's the least I can do for you for cooking me dinner, as well."

She sighed, resting her hand on his shoulder. "It wouldn't have been right to not feed you, Matthew," she murmured, shaking her head. "Back at home, mother would have wrung my neck had I gone and done that." But then she conceded to him, patting the boy softly on the shoulder before heading back over and sitting down in the dining room where the others were sitting and talking.

Once the dishes were done a bit later, he wiped off his hands in a towel and then grabbed the plates and started drying them, stacking all the clean objects and cutlery on the counter alongside the glasses before he started looking for all their homes in the cupboards and drawers, feeling a sense of accomplishment for doing so, even if it was only a tiny, menial task that he didn't even really have to do in the first place.

Rooting through the cupboards, he managed to find where all the different things went (it however, took him several minutes to locate the drawer for the silverware considering there were ten different drawers lining the counter all the way around). Plates went on the top shelf in the cupboard in the right hand corner, while the glasses went in the second one over. Mugs, on the other hand, went in the one next to the glasses. The pots and pans went in the drawer beneath the oven, and the sauce pans went overhead. The big boiler, on the other hand, went in one of the bottom cupboards, right beneath the drawer with the utensils.

"How convenient," he said to himself, smoothing out the towel before returning it to its hanger.

He glanced around the kitchen, smiled a little and then walked quietly back into the dining, sock-clad feet muted as he padded across the hardwood flooring. When he took his seat again, folding his hands in his lap for a brief moment, he looked up to see Jade smiling wryly at him. "Thank you," she said with a brief nod.

Cheeks heating up, Matt shrugged and ducked his head, glancing away quickly before looking at her again once his face felt cool enough to do so. "It was no problem," he mumbled shyly. When he glanced around, he saw Greg was grinning and Arthur even gave him a small, subtle nod of approval, the smallest of smiles curling the corner of his mouth upwards. This caused him to flush even more, and he excused himself to go upstairs and take a look at the layout of the baby's room to try and get an idea as to where he would paint the idea he had for the space.

Once he knew the young man was out of earshot, Kirkland turned back to his cousin and her husband, sighing. "You're all good at keeping secrets, right?" he sipped his tea tentatively, peering at the other two with a sort of amused seriousness in his eyes.

"Duh," Greg said, leaning forward in his chair. "Now c'mon and spill, fairy pants."

Arthur huffed at the nickname and then sighed, shaking his head as though he regretted ever setting foot into the house. "Alfred's absolutely smitten with him," he clucked, taking another sip before finally setting the white and green mug down on the table.

Greg arched an eyebrow while Jade snorted. "I would be, too, if I was that young again."

"I'm right here, Jade."

"Oh, you were? So sorry."

Arthur simply chuckled, shaking his head with a sigh. "But, from the way it seemed to me, it was that he wasn't going to get anywhere; the lad wouldn't give him the time of day, let alone a few seconds," he commented, folding his arms across his chest as he straightened up. "I'm surprised that anything has happened between them."

"Always such a pessimist, Art," Jade commented, shaking her head and giving a small smirk, twirling a strand of dark red hair around her finger. "But I'll be surprised if they get anywhere; Al's such a goddamn secretive person."

Greg nodded slowly. "He's always been a close-lipped guy; for as long as I've known him, I've learned nothing beyond his name, age and profession. Nothing else other than that. I don't even know if that's enough to call it the bare minimum, either."

"You're damn right about that," Arthur muttered darkly, glaring at the table. "I barely know anything that's going on in his life right now - I didn't even know he and Matthew had managed to become friends; I would have thought he would have come running and screaming to me like the hormonal teenage twit he is at times. And if it weren't for the fact that mum kept me up to date on everything happening in his life in Massachusettes, I wouldn't know anything about him at all."

The three of them sighed, and Arthur ran his finger along the rim of the mug. "Hopefully the poor bloke will have more luck than any of us have had," he muttered to himself.

The business man snorted wryly, downing the rest of his cola. "If we're any indication of it, more than likely, he won't have any success. At all."

Jade grunted in agreement.

Greg rolled his eyes.

And in the bathroom upstairs in Matthew's temporary apartment, the Canadian was choking back a Valium as he said the hell with it and dumped his Zoloft pills down the toilet.

Arthur set his face in his hands, shoulders sagging.

"I'm surrounded by fucking optimists."

* * *

AHAHA. I was successful in posting on time! -hearts- And I apologize if that Spanish is incorrect; it's been a few months now since I've used the language, so my skills are really rusty.

Like, think Matthew's fire escape rusty. Eff.

Anyways, pleasepleaseplease leave a review; they make me write a lot faster and I love reading what you all have to say! Thanks guys -hearts-


	13. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN.**

Blue. The entire space above him was painted blue. A most beautiful hue of azure, pale and creamy, but realistic enough that it looked like he could reach up and touched the expanse above, and not simply just a ceiling.

Sat in the middle of the room, staring up at the ceiling, Matthew found that a rather uncomfortable kink in his neck was after forming from keeping his head poised in that position to stare at the imitation blue sky he had painted there, trying to figure out just where he would places the clouds to.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours.

Five thousand seven hundred sixty minutes.

He didn't even want to know how many seconds were included in there.

In those days, hours, minutes, he had not taken one single anti-depressant. All in all, he did not feel too dreadful - his stomach was off and he found he was unable to get to sleep at a decent hour, but it wasn't all that bad; McKnight had already been weaning him off of the pills as it was, and well, he had just taken the final step. Thrown them out, all out. Pills were not something he could just throw out into the trash all whimsical-like; people went through other people's garbage bins, and leaving nearly another three months worth of Zoloft around like that was not the best way to really dispose of them. It just wasn't safe, and he didn't want to have being responsible for someone else's newfound addiction to weighing on his already frayed conscience. So down the toilet they had gone. It felt like he was in a movie when he had done that, really. Like a movie where the main character is crazy-depressed and no longer wants to accept that their life is shit, so they just decide to go on this

**EPIC, LIFE-ALTERING JOURNEY®**

which they start by dumping a shit-ton of pills down the toilet (or the sink if the toilet is unavailable for usage at the time of filming). It's a symbolic sort of thing (see: synonym for bullshit) and it's used to effectively mark the beginning of a journey that is meant to enlighten the viewers and leave them with a sense of fulfillment when all is said and done. So if he wanted to start his

**EPIC, LIFE-ALTERING JOURNEY®**

he had to throw his pills down the toilet. Because it was symbolic. And would lead to enlightenment.

Go figure.

(He knew the lamp would tell him that sitting down and playing some Resident Evil 4 and smoking a joint would have the same enlightening effect, but Matthew would have promptly told the lamp to go fuck itself. If that were possible at all. And then he would have gone and smoked a joint and played some videogames, because sometimes you can't argue with a lamp's logic. Even if it's not supposed to have any.)

And really, when he sat back and considered everything, he felt better about himself than he had in years. His thoughts seemed clearer, less addled, more focused and direct to one thing and one thing only. Which he could not help but deem as a little bit odd, considering when he had read up on the withdrawal symptoms it seemed that he should have been feeling quite the opposite to that.

After he realized that, he thought of something else altogether: what if it had been the medication that had been making him depressed in the first place? The thought was a common one that had popped up, and as each day passed and he progressively started feeling better and better, he came to the conclusion that it might have been the reality of it.

Standing and stretching, tilting his head from one side to the other and letting his neck pop, he grabbed a paint sponge and dabbed it into the tray of white paint. He watched as the white substance soaked into the dark pad, spreading throughout the foamy material and creating spider web-like tendrils across the hitched materials, a small smile on his face as he felt a weight slowly added to the little brush in his hand. So he stood up on the little stool he had in the room, reaching up overhead and dabbing at the ceiling with the sponge, chuckling lightly when some white dripped down from the ceiling and onto his chin.

More than likely, he thought as he padded the squishy material onto the ceiling in harsh and light dabs, it was the pills that had been keeping him depressed. Yes, he had been depressed - and properly suicidal with the marks, both internal and external, to prove it - when he had been on Effexor, and had been before he had been put on the Zoloft, but perhaps the pills had been keeping him in a depressed state of mind without neither McKnight nor himself realizing it. Something like that was hard to decipher once you got used to feeling a certain way all the time. Maybe he had gotten better without noticing it, the pills _keeping_ him from noticing it.

_Dab. Dab. Squish. Dab._

There was a damn good chance the pills had been keeping him depressed. It was not much of a surprise, because there had been times when he had that feeling. A tiny smile lighted upon his face as he pulled his arm back to get a better look at the cloud he had painted. There had been times when he had gotten the feeling that he was fine - and it was usually when the effects of the pill had worn off; but at the time it had also been coupled with the anxiety medications wearing off as well, and had nullified the vanishing effects of the anti-depressants.

He stepped down from the stool, pushed it over to the side and after he put more paint onto the sponge, got back up onto it in order to paint one more cloud up there. Once that cloud was in place, all he needed to do was some of the finishing touches. They had given him a week to paint the entire room, and he had managed it in a little less than four days. One wall had a castle painted on it, like something similar to the castle in Sleeping Beauty. The wall across from that one had a fairytale forest on it (that was the wall that needed the final touches to it, really) and then there was the horse he had painted on the other wall…

How the _hell_ had he managed to paint all that in four days?

Wonders never cease around these parts. Sighing, he decided against trying to figure it out (thinking about how he had spent at least thirteen hours a day in the room painting made him feel like a bit of a loser) and just continued to paint, humming softly to himself. Four days, and he still had the other three open to him to stay in the apartment. If Greg and Jade didn't mind, he would take them up on the remaining offer of three days, and then stay there to simply enjoy the place before returning to his own little slice of … heaven.

Matthew twitched violently at the thought.

Several minutes later, he stepped down from the stool and stretched, dropping the sponge down into the pan of cloudy water, wiping his hands off in his ratty jeans and simply adding more white paint to his already splattered jeans. He glanced around the room, nodded and then left, deciding to head back upstairs as he waited for it to dry before going back in there to finish up the last little bit of the forest wall.

Leaving the room, he peered around the hall before stepping fully out into it, a smile forming on his lips when he saw Jade come up the stairs. The red-head grinned at him, eyes bright. "Ah, Matt," she said pleasantly. "How's th' room comin' along, love?"

"It's almost done," he reassured her, grinning slightly as he shifted his weight into a more comfortable position. "But no, you still can't go in and look at it yet, not until it's completely done."

The woman chuckled, shaking her had and a hand going to rest at her lower back. "Alright, alright," she said, rolling her eyes. "It better be worth th' wait; I ain't no patient lass, I'll have you understand."

Snorting, Matthew nodded. That much, as saucy as he felt in thinking so, was more than obvious; the woman was both very demanding at times and it was not the wisest idea to keep her waiting, whether it was necessary or not - and if it wasn't, damn it, then avoid it at all costs possible. "Understood," he said wryly, placing his hand on the banister as he set his foot down on the first step.

"Oh, before you go up, Alfred gave you a call about half an hour ago," Jade said quickly, placing her hand over Matthew's, smiling slightly. "First time he calls here in months, and it's not even for one of us. You're a good 'un, aren't you?"

At this the Canadian flushed, biting his lower lip. "I'm sorry!" he said weakly. "I-I probably shouldn't have told him I was staying here…"

Jade laughed outright. It was obvious she got a kick out of his panicked apology, something that made Matthew's face warm even further. "Don't worry 'bout it," she said. "Feel free to use the phone upstairs to call him back, alright?"

Matthew nodded and turned away from the woman, skipping the steps as he went and slipping into the apartment. The space was cool, and still as clean as it had been when he had first arrived there. The only indication to be found that someone lived there now was the beige parka hung up on a hook by the door, the crystal bowl filled with watermelon candies he had bought at the corner store, and the way the cushions were arranged on the end of the sofa. Otherwise, the place would have appeared to be completely uninhabited.

Grabbing the cordless phone he had managed to locate on the kitchen counter after a few minutes of diligent searching, he wandered over to the sofa, flopping down as he dialled Alfred's number. While he had not called him very often - maybe three or four times tops - Matthew prided himself on his ability to recall any combination of numbers with an ease that was uncanny. Blindly he groped for the bowl of watermelon candies on the table (Jade was dead serious about him putting on at least ten pounds before leaving at the end of the week), stuffing a few of the pieces in his mouth and pursing his lips at the sourness.

On the fourth ring, Alfred picked up: "_Hello_?"

"Took you long enough to answer, Princess," Matthew grunted, straightening out to the length of the couch. "I thought you were one of those pretentious snots that answer on the first ring."

"_Har-de-fucking-har. Go fuck yourself, Mattie. Unlike you, I have a life and I don't sit right by the phone praying to God someone will call me_."

"I don't even have a phone other than the one here that I can use. Your argument is invalid."

"_Your face is invalid_."

"You're invalid."

"You're _invalid_."

"You're not just invalid, you're an inva_lid_."

"_Your mom's an invalid_."

"My mother's dead so you leave her out of this."

"_Ha-ha, you're funny, Matt. Hilarious_."

At this, Matthew paused, frowning thoughtfully. "No, no. I'm not joking; my mom seriously _is_ dead - she has been for the past five years now."

There was a heavy pause.

"_S-shit, Matthew, fuck. I'm sorry. Like, if I had known I wouldn't hav_-"

To both of their surprise, Matthew laughed a little. "Chill dude. Like you said, you didn't know," he said with a shrug, popping another piece of candy into his mouth. "I'm not mad at you, so there's no need to apologise or anything; it was an honest mistake anyone could have made."

"_Yeah, I know, but still. I'm so_-"

"Oh shut up, Al," Matt moaned, removing his glasses and rubbing at his face in a moment of exasperation. "Do you want to hang out?"

Alfred was silent for a moment, but from the way he spoke, Matthew could tell the man was smiling. "_I was actually calling to ask you the same thing_," he said with a light laugh. "_Where do you want to go? It's really nice out, so why don't we go for a trot around Central Park_?"

Nodding although he knew the other couldn't see him (the Canadian hated reflexes like those), he grinned. "Sounds good to me," he said cheerfully. "Will I walk over and meet you there?"

"_Okay then. Why don't we meet up at the Alice in Wonderland statue in about an hour or two_?"

The smile on Matthew's face broadened considerably; he was only a twenty minute walk away from the park, and at least forty minutes to find the statue. There would be plenty of time for him to get there. "See you then."

He hung up the phone and then paused, flopping back against the sofa and groaning loudly, smacking his face and crashing over onto his side and burying his face in the cushion. Since when had he become such a pushover when it came to hanging out with other people? And since when was he ever a push over?

Maybe, just maybe…

"Oh God, just give me my pills back," Matthew moaned into the pillow, slamming his fist down on the arm of the. Fuck that

**EPIC, LIFE-ALTERING JOURNEY®**

he had been considering; he should have kept the goddamn happy pills and just be done with it.

Rolling off of the sofa and standing, stretching lazily, he hauled off his paint-covered shirt as he wandered to his bedroom, tossing the ratty piece of clothing onto the end of his bed, along with his equally messed jeans, as he dug out a clean change of clothing from his bag.

Changed, face wiped over and free of paint, he left the apartment with his jacket draped over his shoulder, quickly locking the door behind him before he trotted down over the stairs. It was warm in the house, and so cozy, and this time it did not smell of a cooked chicken dinner, but of someone baking - more than likely it was Greg; while Jade was an excellent cook, she was a terrible baker; whatever she touched in terms of sweet things usually turned to a chunk of burnt crap.

Rule number one in their house, thus meaning it was the most important, was that the Scottish woman was not allowed to touch a baking pan, cake mixer, baked-goods packaging or anything that could be turned into a pastry because her husband was not sure if his health insurance also covered freak accidents (there was a clause, however, that Greg told him that should anyone covered under the insurance die in an accident involving an exploding fire hydrant, they would be covered in full. Go figure).

He was stopped, however, before he could get to the front door by Greg. "Hey, Matt, c'mere for a second," the taller man asked, addressing him with an odd smile on his face. Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked slowly into the living room, hands stuffed into the back pockets of his black dress pants.

A frown slowly made its way to Matthew's lips, but he said nothing, just followed McKnight oldest son into the room as he draped his jacket over the banister before he did anything. There was no sense in putting it on when he wasn't entirely sure how long this would take - it could have been mere second, minutes, or if he was really unlucky, he could be in there an hour, but that was all dependant on what it was the business man wanted.

When he entered the room, Greg was sat down in the winged-back chair, legs crossed and his cheek placed in his hand, elbow propped up on the arm. He was smiling lightly, but his expression overall was serious. Matthew swallowed thickly against the sudden tension in his throat, wringing his hands slightly as he went to sit on the sofa, feeling terribly like a child that had been caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar (although he could not help but wonder what, precisely, was the cookie jar he was talking about).

"So, Matt," Greg started, eyes not once wavering from the young man's pale face. "Jade and I have been thinking-" ('Ah,' thought the young man, 'that's what the burning smell over the past day or so has been.') "- and well, I have to ask you, what's the place you're living in now like?"

Immediately, Matthew's stomach churned. He had a feeling now about where this was going, and while he wanted to be excited, he knew he could not get his hopes up, not when they always got crushed in the end.

Swallowing, he shrugged. "Not really the greatest," he said quietly, unable to look at the business man any longer. "The power comes and goes; the heating doesn't work very well. I get hot water every four days for half an hour at a time, the pipes are rusted and I have to boil my drinking water, just to be on the safe side. There are tiles missing here and there, wires hanging from the ceiling, and someone exploded a hamster in the microwave that's forty or more years old and I'm not allowed to replace it." He chuckled darkly at that, a look of disgust passing over his face.

If Greg was at all appalled, he was very good at hiding it. "What about expenses?" he asked, idly drumming his fingers along his cheekbone.

Once more he swallowed thickly, feeling a state of trepidation looming over his shoulder, embracing him around the middle, again. "It costs almost six hundred a month for rent, and I have to put at least a hundred and fifty to the side each pay for utilities, and then a hundred for oil for my apartment's furnace. Then there's money I need for the bus, about four hundred of it goes to medication and therapy sessions, I bank at least a hundred of it, and if I'm lucky, I can have some money for groceries. That usually doesn't happen very often though."

Finally Greg shifted, a rather acrimonious look forming in his eyes. "How much do you usually make?" His voice was sharp now, and Matthew inwardly winced.

"About $550 every two weeks at the supermarket, $150 at the bakery and about $360 at the diner." _Just barely enough to get by_, he wanted to add. "But that's at the most. Bare minimum leaves me with $1,200 between all three jobs, which isn't even enough to pay for therapy in the end."

The man across from him remained unspeaking for several moments, leaving the other in a state of disconcertion for some time until he chose to resume his dialogue again. "You can have the place for two hundred a month," Greg said finally, straightening up and peering at him, dark eyes as sharp as his voice. "That money will go to the extra amount on the bills, although Jade and I don't really expect it to be too much, but we don't think it's too unreasonable. What do you think?"

Matthew's mouth opened and closed several times, but no noise came out. At this Greg chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair and smiling wryly.

"I take it you're fine with it?"

It was a wonder Matthew was able to actually nod in agreement; everything seemed like it had frozen up at that precise moment.

"As well, we were looking into getting an actual door put up there, down at the other end of the hall, where the window is that leads to the fire escape, so you wouldn't have to worry about trekking through the house all the time," he said. "Because I know on Friday nights you work a night shift and such, and Jade would beat you up for wandering down over the stairs at one am."

Laughter followed this, and Matthew nodded. "Quite understood," he said hoarsely, finally finding his voice. "But, are you sure about this? I mean, Jade will be having the baby in March, and I'm afraid I would be invading your privacy by living up here and-"

"Oh shut your trap, lad," Jade said, entering the living room with a smirk, shaking her head ruefully as she manoeuvred herself to sit down beside the young Canadian. "I was th' one tha' brought it up in th' first place. Anyway, I think you'd be a great hand around here in th' evening because I wouldn't expect you to be keepin' three jobs and workin' yourself into an early grave while living here basically for free."

The young man flushed as his mouth clicked shut, nodding quickly as she spoke. The woman from the British Isles smirked lightly, leaning back. "Once th' baby's here, I was wondering if you wouldn't mind doing a little bit of house work for me two or three times a week, for a couple of hours in th' evening. I'll pay you a hundred a week for it; I would get Greg to do it, but come April he's going to be gone to Singapore on business for several months, and I'll need an extra hand; I can't take care of a newborn and a house all at once."

"Of course I will," Matthew said quickly, a smile growing on his face as he sat upright. From his peripheral vision he saw a smile on the other man's face, the corners of his mouth quirking upwards and his mahogany-hued eyes losing their sharpness and taking on a softer tone. "You don't have to pay me for helping you when you'll need it."

"Matt?" her voice was sweet when she spoke, and Matthew drew back slightly, knowing damn well that the tone, albeit sugary, was completely opposite of whatever she was about to say.

"Yes, yes, I'll shut up."

"There's a good lad; you finally know your place."

"Is it in the kitchen?"

"Damn right it is, and you better remember that."

"You might want to handcuff me to the stove for good measure, though. Then again, that could be rather enjoyable."

"Oh, if only Greg were as kinky as you, love."

"… I'm right here. Y'know, sat right here."

Jade smirked. "And what does that have to do with anything?"

Greg snorted, standing up. "Alright children, no more sexist jokes and innuendo in front of the old man," he said wryly, shaking his head and tousling Matthew's hair as he walked past, earning a grumble from the twenty-one-year-old. "We can discuss all this later, over dinner-"

"Which you're eating with us again," Jade interjected smugly, pinching Matthew's cheek, making a cooing sound before snickering as she stood, hand going to the back of the sofa to steady herself.

"-because you were just in the process of going out, right?" Greg finished, somewhat exasperated although unable to help the smile that surfaced on his face.

Standing, Matthew nodded, biting his lip. "Y-Yeah," he said quietly, smiling a little as well. "Thank you, guys. Really. Like, I…" he wavered slightly, his throat closing over and a burning feeling making itself known in his chest as he sighed. The words he had wanted to use were suddenly locked in his throat, so instead all he did was shrug and laugh weakly.

"It's no problem," Greg said in a low voice, not looking at him but out the window. It had started snowing lightly. "Now get lost, loser. Have a social life or whatever it is you do when you're twenty-one."

Jade rolled her eyes, leaving the room and shaking her head. "Man's ready for retirement already," she muttered, abandoning the other two as they laughed at her comment.

Standing there alone once more, Matthew slipped his hands into his pockets and let out the shuddering sob he had been keeping in, hand immediately flying to his mouth and tears of relief rolled down over his cheeks. Everything, it would seem, was beginning to fall back into place, life was beginning to return to where it had left off those few years ago.

Something had to go wrong.

* * *

Everything around him was encrusted in a thick layer of ice and snow. Bare and pine needle trees alike buckled beneath the weight of the frozen water, their limbs drooping downwards. Overhead snow fell from a sky that was a light shade of gray from the cloud covering of the day and, when he looked up, the icy little flakes burned his already-freezing face. Cheeks flushed, the tip of his nose numb and dripping, he wiped at it with his bright red wool mitten like a child might, sniffing and glancing around, a small smile on his face. It had been a long time since he had been to the park, and it had been an even longer time since he had been there to hang out with someone that had any sort of significance in his life; last time it had been with his mother, Evelina, a month before she had told him that her and his father were getting a divorce. He had been sixteen at the time, and living in New York for only a month when he had found out. Last time he had been in Central Park, it had been snowing like this, his mother had wanted to talk to him about something 'important' and everything started to go downhill from there, really.

But here he was again, on an icy snowy day, waiting for someone important - the one person in his life, he decided while feeling somewhat cliché, that might be able to make a difference for him, might be able to make him happy - to show up so they could walk the entire expanse of the park.

So he waited. And he waited. And he waited, and damn it all, he waited.

Maybe he had gotten there a little too quickly, but Alfred was suddenly worried that Matthew wasn't going to show up. He had been stood in front of the Alice statue in Central Park for at least ten, fifteen minutes now, and the younger man had yet to show. Of course it had started snowing as well, some half an hour ago, and now the tip of his nose felt like it was practically frozen. Take a walk in Central Park because it looked nice, even though it was enough to freeze the nads off of a Russian.

Good fucking idea his ass.

"And to think I thought we were past this point," he muttered darkly, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he stamped his feet repeatedly, trying to coax a sensation of any sort back into his toes and the soles of his feet.

Sluggishly, another ten minutes passed, and the American found his shoulders sagging a little with dejection when he realized that Matthew probably wasn't going to show up at all, and that the idea had been one that was almost painfully stupid. Maybe it would have been better had he gone and picked the artist up, and they could have just found a parking spot and then wandered over and throughout the space. But no, he had hoped that offering the idea of walking around the place, without any vehicles - which meant no traffic - would appeal to the little tree-hugger, maybe even entice him to say yes. It had, but only at the time it would seem.

He sighed and then sat down on the bronze, icy statue, and propped his cheeks in his hands, staring at the ground with an expression on his face that resembled a puppy that had been kicked by David Beckham wearing steel-toed boots.

A few more minutes passed (minutes that felt like hours) and then Alfred figured perhaps it was time to finally give up. Or he would have, if he had not noticed the individual running towards him full-tilt. His eyes widened behind his glasses and then a smile broke out across his face when he realized that it was Matthew.

Once he was close enough, Alfred stood, feeling light (with relief) as he propped one hand on his hip and smirked a little. "Took you long enough," he teased when the other stood in front of him, face flushed and his hair messy, panting heavily (in a way that Alfred thought made him to be dreadfully attractive).

"S-Sorry," Matthew croaked out, coughing harshly into his hand before sighing heavily. "I was … talking with Greg … and, well, I lost … track of the … time..."

"It's cool, man," Alfred said lightly. Then he paused, frowning as he took in the other's stance - bent over with his hands placed on the top of his thighs, head hung and panting heavily. "Did you … did you run the whole way here?"

"Most of it," Matt replied, going over and sitting down on the statue in the same spot the American had previously occupied. He slumped back against Alice and sighed heavily, rubbing at his forehead before he glanced back up. His panting had eased off slightly, and as he stretched some more, his breathing returned to practically normal. The boy must have been a runner at some point, to be able to cool down from a full-out sprint in winter clothing in minimal time. "Once I realized what time it was, I gave 'er."

Walking over and crouching down beside him, he laughed and shook his head, running a hand through his cropped blonde locks, pointedly ignoring how his cows lick continued to stick off no matter what he tried to do to get it to get away. "You didn't have to, you know," Alfred mumbled with a small grin.

"Shut up," he said, rolling darkly hued eyes and shaking his head. Damp, curly blonde hair bounced from the movement, but still the American managed to earn a tiny smile. After a moment they stood, the younger man leaning back and cracking his spine slightly, the older stretching and tapping his toes on the ground to get feeling back in them.

"Let's go that way," Al suggested, pointing off to the left, a grin on his face.

Following the direction he pointed in with his eyes, Matthew nodded lightly, a small smile on his face. "Yeah," he said. "Sounds good to me."

"Then we shall travel onwards, my wayward son!" he declared, draping his arm loosely over Matthew's shoulder and tugging him close. The action was performed without even thinking, and once he realized just what he had done, the American's body went rigid and his eyes wide, globular and glassy behind his lenses. Although there was no way he could pull his arm away as quickly as he put it there without looking ridiculous, there was no way he could really keep it there, either. So, he simply chose to gauge the reaction.

The shoulders beneath his arm tensed for a moment and then much to his relief, he relaxed quite a bit, and the Canadian chuckled, loosely draping an arm around the other's shoulder in an unusual gesture of camaraderie. Hesitantly, keeping his eye on the other man, he tightened his arm just a little bit, bringing him closer by what had to be at least a fraction of an inch. He almost sagged when there was no negative reaction - or any reaction at all, for that matter.

This was nice, he decided, even if to Matthew it was nothing more than just casual hanging out. Which is what it was, completely. Because one person couldn't consider it a date while the other considered it just chilling without even knowing that the other had a crush on them relevant to the size of India's population. Shit like that was creepy as hell.

"Want to go see the animals in the zoo?"

"Aren't they closed this time of year?" Alfred asked, eyebrow arched as he glanced over to the one beside him.

Matthew frowned lightly. "I thought they kept their northern animals outside, and their warmer climate animals in indoor caging?" he said softly, blinking quickly to get the snowflakes off of his eyelashes. The American beside him smiled lightly, eyes softening as he took in the other's flushed apperance - his cheeks were rosy, as was the tip of his narrow, pointed nose, eyes were bright and sharp, anything but tired, in his face, and his hair was matted with the snow that was falling from above them.

Perfect. His heart clenched.

Swallowing harshly and looking away, Alfred shrugged. "Maybe they do; it's been a while since I've visited, so maybe they've changed things around a bit." The little fucker looked so damn squeezable and kissable in that giant jacket of his, with his healthy and excited appearance, and that damn soft voice of his. Was it a crime that he may or may not have wanted to jump him right that very second?

Matthew suddenly let go of his shoulders and tugged on Alfred's hand, walking quickly and with an obvious purpose, keeping a tight grip on the lawyer's hand despite the fact that they both wore mittens and not gloves, leaving their fingers practically immobile and the rest of their hands slippery from the smooth wool. "Then let's go and see if the damn animals are there instead of standing around and talking about it!" he said with a laugh, walking backwards as he tugged his friend forward.

Half an hour was spent navigating the trails in the park, both of them laughing and shoving each other into snow drifts, pelleting one another with snow balls thrown with enough force that they should have been classified as lethal weapons, and even stopping at one point to make a snow man (and they watched with some serious disgust as a guy peed his name in the snow). And they still had yet to find the Central Park zoo.

Walking along the tops of benches, trash cans and some fencing, Matthew kept his gaze forward, body light and his steps graceful as he managed to keep his balance despite the icy coating on all the objects he wandered across.

The entire time Alfred was fighting the urge to start launching snowballs at the peaceful young man to see if he would fall over and into a snow bank.

"So, Al," Matt asked, not looking over at the other. "Other than lawyer-stuff and prickish, snobbish-stuff, what sorts of things do you do?"

He stared over at the Canadian with a blank expression on his face, stopping dead in his tracks. What an eloquent way to put his hobbies outside of work. Really, the little asshole had such an ungodly way with words that at times it was horrifying. "I volunteer," he said once he resumed walking, steps slow as he looked at the ground, swallowing thickly and keeping his gaze away from the other that was balanced precariously on the edge of a trash can as he tried to jump over onto the wrought iron fencing.

"Really?"

Looking up with slight dismay when he heard the surprise in the Canadian's voice, he frowned slightly when he saw the look of utter disbelief on his face. Was it that hard to believe that he volunteered virtually all of his spare time - with the exception of Friday nights and Saturday nights - elsewhere in the city?

"Well, yeah," Al said quietly, shuffling his feet against the snow, no longer aware of just how numb his toes had gone. "I volunteer every Sunday at a homeless shelter, Thursday evenings at a hospital, Monday and Tuesday evenings I do work with OXFAM and then every second week I use Wednesday nights for going to the gym because I'd be fat otherwise."

He hadn't noticed that Matthew had come to stand beside him, and when he did, he jerked a little, glancing at him with wide eyes. "A homeless shelter, eh?" the younger man said quietly, a distant look on his face as his lips dipped downwards and into a frown. "How long have you worked there for?"

Trying to ignore how hollow the other's gaze had become, Alfred shook the snow from his hair and then shrugged. "Oh, I 'unno. I started volunteering there when I was fourteen, when my father thought I was old enough, and I stayed there until I was eighteen because I was after being accepted then into Harvard so I had to move out of New York. Then, when I came back a year or so ago, I started volunteering there again."

A sigh left Matthew and the young man turned his gaze away, shoulders dipping a little. "That's a nice thing you're doing," he said softly, expression unreadable, face blank. Dark eyes flickered to him, and Alfred tried desperately to ignore just how haunted the gaze really was. There were times that when he looked to the other, and caught him at a moment when his defences were down, that he really caught a glimpse of the Canadian, of how he was only in pieces that were almost impossible to put back together.

"Why do you ask?" Alfred asked, bumping their hips together, trying to work a smile onto the other's face. He was starting to look a little too melancholy for his liking.

"I've been involved with homeless shelters before, that's all," was the reply.

"So you've volunteered for them, too?" Al asked hopefully, smiling brightly. But the smile started to fade, the brightness leaving his eyes as the one walking beside him turned his gaze away and down towards the ground, arms moving to fold across the front of his thick winter jacket. He started to feel sick. "Unless you mean…"

Slowly, Matthew nodded, the twenty-one-year-old biting down on his lip and sighing, lowering his head and nodding. He said nothing, and from the pained expression on his face, Alfred knew that he probably couldn't.

Gently placing his hand on Matthew's elbow, he peered across the small space separating them and frowned. "What happened?" he asked gently. Then he balked slightly at the sudden, sharp look the Albertan gave gave him. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it," he said in a rush, tripping over his words in an effort to get them out quick enough, "but sometimes talking will make things feel a bit lighter for you, right? And you need to have someone to talk to other than your psychiatrist."

For a moment, it seemed he was considering this offer, this idea. Then he nodded. "Might as well start at the beginning, I guess. I was sixteen when my mom got sick; she had been married to Jason, my step-father, for a little over a year. So, I was still the one written down under her insurance company to be the one that would get all of her money should anything happen - and we had money, let me tell you that. I grew up on a cattle farm in Alberta, and one of the best ones in the entire province, so we were very well off, considering it was just the two of us and farm hands that needed to be paid. But anyway, I digress.

"When she passed away, all of her money got landed on me. This also included all of the debts she left behind in Alberta - some $700,000 in loans from banks and whatnot. But, this all pissed off my step-father (and for the love of fuck he hated me enough as it was). So in addition to paying off all of her debts with the money I got, he also made me use the money I had saved up for university - which was leaning towards Harvard at this point, based on what Jason wanted - to pay off her medical bills, her funeral, everything. He saddled all of it on me, and I was still just trying to finish my last year of high school.

"So, when she died - it was the treatment that made her even sicker than what the cancer did, and she just never got better, really - I was still seventeen, and because of the fact that I was basically a nervous wreck as it was and they had learned of my track record with my step-father, child protection services kept an eye on me up until I turned eighteen. The day of my eighteenth birthday, my step-father kicked me out without anything to my name. No extra clothes, no money, nothing. All I had was my wallet, and he had taken all my debit cards from me, leaving me with just my driver's licence and the two papers that had accepted me into university." Matthew stopped talking for a moment and then snorted bitterly. "I don't think there's any proof left that says I graduated high school with top academic honours, either."

Alfred said nothing, simply felt sick as he listened to the other speak, watching him and wondering if he was going to continue talking. He was somewhat surprised when he did.

"So, I basically spent almost two years living on the streets. New York in the winter is not an easy place to live," he muttered with a dark chuckle, shaking his head ruefully. "I would have stayed with Gilbert, but at the time he was in Pennsylvania attending university - actually, he didn't know any of this was happening, and he told me when we met up again that he thought I was dead for the longest while - and while he was in university, his father went back to Germany and took Ludwig and his wife, so I really had no options. My only other living family is in France, and there was no way I was able to get in contact with my cousin Francis; he was there for her funeral, and he was the one that helped me out with all the legalities - he studied law at Harvard too, actually - and he offered to take me to France with him to live with his wife and their daughter, Seychel, but Jason wouldn't let me; the fucker took my passport and burned it.

"And there you have it," he concluded dryly, face blank and damp, sighing and swiping at his eyes lightly.

Alfred was silent for a moment and then he looked to the other, frowning lightly. "For someone that's been through shit like that, you seem like you have a head on your shoulders," he murmured.

"You have to when you live like that," Matt said with a sigh, leaning in against Alfred, utterly oblivious to how the other's eyes went wide and how he bit his lips with a delight-filled anxiety. "It's kind of scary, going to sleep at night in an alleyway and worrying about waking up the next morning alive, hoping that you get though the night without being raped, murdered, robbed, whatever. Kind of gratifying when you do wake up and nothing has happened to you. Although it sucks when you realize you've gone five days without eating and then you remember that the nearest soup kitchen or church is five city blocks away from you..."

"Mind if I ask how you got out of a situation like that?" Alfred asked, letting his arm settle lazily, and as casually as he could possibly make it, around the other's shoulders again as the lithe man leant against him.

For a long moment, Matthew was silent. Then he shifted a little, head turned away. "I tried to kill myself," he said, voice barely even a whisper.

Alfred blanched and he shut his eyes, biting the inside of his mouth as he felt his stomach churn violently. That was the very last thing he had expected to hear, or wanted to hear for that matter.

"My friend - well, I consider him a friend, really, even if it's been a while since I've last seen him - Feliks brought me in to a hospital after he knocked me out. I don't remember any of it, but apparently I was horrifyingly delusional. Go figure. I just remember drinking, a lot, and mutilating my arms like it was no one's business. But, they managed to keep me in there for a little over a week, I checked myself out once I got too frustrated and scared with all the prodding, repeated the attempted suicide process six times before I got caught stealing money from a convenience store and put in the lockup in Brooklyn - I think I might have been stoned when I tried that because I remember it seemed like an amazing idea at the time. Then my now-psychiatrist bailed me out, bless his fucking soul, talked me down into a snivelling mess and hello, my name is Matthew Williams and I'm twenty-one with two and a half jobs, a nice new apartment and a form of crippling anxiety that comes with pseudo-depression. It's nice to meet you, and that was the story of my life in ten minutes or less."

And all Alfred could think was that it was an utter miracle that the young man walking beside him was still alive to be able to tell him that story, and he didn't know who to start thanking for it.

Nothing was said between them after that. They simply walked, Alfred with his arm still around the younger man's shoulders, and Matthew with his head resting on the shoulder of the older. Neither of them knew what to say, at all. Or, at least Alfred felt like he didn't. The silence that hung between them was fragile - as was the odd little agreement, understood by the mutual silence, which said the American could keep his arm around the Canadian until the latter felt better - and he didn't want to risk breaking it.

Until Matthew positively squealed upon sighting the zoo, and the fact that there were people walking in and out of the place, observing the cold-climate animals that were currently basking in their element.

"Polar bears!" the Canadian giggled, throwing his hands up into the air and jogging forward, a look of childish wonder on his face as he left the other behind him.

"Maybe he's just bipolar, not depressed," Alfred offered to himself in a low voice, trying not to snort as he quicked his step to catch up with the unusually exuberant young man. This quickened step turned into a full-out jog when he saw the other turning around, hand on his hip, waiting for the other to catch up to him with an expectant look upon his face, more than likely silently telling him to hurry the fuck up already before the snow started to melt.

Shaking his head ruefully, trying not to laugh at just how serious his friend looked, he lightly shoved the other's face away, snorting. "_Chill out_, Mattie," he snickered. His poor attempt at humour earned his a handful of ice cold, fluffy snow being shoved in his face. At this he spluttered shrilly, laughter coming from beside him, so the New Yorker retaliated in the first way he thought of: he grabbed Matthew and shoved him into a snow bank.

A shriek was startled out of the other, and Alfred burst out laughing, a stupid grin on his face as he floundered in the snow, struggling to get back up from the awkward position he had been thrown down into.

Then the next thing he knew, he was being grabbed by the front of his jacket and yanked roughly down into the snow by the prone artist. With his own yell, he crashed down into the previously undisturbed, perfectly smooth snow. He glanced over to Matthew, who lay next to him with a slight smirk on his face, and there was a chunk of snow, sitting quite casually in his gloved hand.

"Matthew, what… what are yo- SHIT, NO, DON'T PUT THAT SNOW DOWN MY JACKET. FUCKING HELL GET AWAY FROM ME YOU SADIST."

Laughter spilled out of the Canadian as he pinned the larger man beneath him, ruthlessly stuffing snow down the back of his jacket, squealing and pulling away quickly when Alfred made a lunge for him. He jerked back and they both let out grunts when their foreheads collided, Matthew flopping back and Alfred groaning as he leant forward, bracing himself face-first in the snow.

"If we don't end up with concussions from that, it'll be a miracle," Matt moaned, massaging the red spot on his head with his fingertips.

All Alfred could do was nod and whimper. "You have a thick skull," he mumbled, face still buried in the snow. Beside him, he heard the crunching of ice; the Canadian had probably gotten up. Two hands on his sides, pulling him up into a standing position, were proof of it. The Canadian took one look at the other before he burst out laughing, reaching over to dust the chunks of snow from his face.

"No, I think you're the one with a thick skull," he snickered, walking again in the direction of zoo, a small smirk still playing across his lips.

"Shut up, your voice is making my head hurt even more," Alfred whined, quickening his step (didn't this seem familiar) to walk alongside the smaller man.

"Oh, come on, Princess, let's just look at the polar bears," he huffed, puffing his cheeks and glaring.

Deciding it would be better to not argue with him about it, and to just shut up, listen and follow along (unless he wanted to get shoved into another snow bank, which would more than likely be the end result of not listening to the fiesty little Canuck), Alfred gave a sigh of resignation, hanging his head. "You definitely just want to see the polar bear, and only the polar bear, right?"

"Damn right; I hate seeing animals in captivity, but I love polar bears, so I really want to see if there's a big one there that looks super cuddly and shit."

"Mattie, buddy, uh, you can't cuddle polar bears."

"Fuck your noise, I make my own rules."

"Well, I express my condolences should you lose an arm or a head in the process. I wish you luck in your endeavours."

Matthew simply huffed and continued to walk ahead, picking up his pace when he saw the sign that directed them towards the polar bear display.

And needless to say that neither of them were disappointed when they saw the four polar bears, and one bear cub, toddling around the snow- and water-filled enclosure. Indigo eyes lit up as bright as the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center upon seeing them, and he jogged over to the railing, leaning over slightly as he peered at the animals, a broad smile on his face.

"Aren't they adorable?" he cooed, looking back over at Alfred as the lawyer slowly made his way over, unable to help but smile at just how excited the young man was. "Look at the little cub!" He made a whining sound in the back of his throat and squirmed. "I want one."

"… I could buy you a stuffed polar bear in the gift shoppe?" Alfred offered meekly, not quite liking how the mother bear - presumably - was staring the two of them down as the oblivious Canadian cooed nonsense words at the little cub that splashed around aimlessly.

Wordlessly, Matthew stared at him, finally tearing his eyes away from the cub that was obviously the most enchanting thing on the face of the earth at the moment (although the American couldn't help but think it was adorable, too). Then he grinned. "I'm holding you to your word," he said, jabbing him in the chest lightly with his finger. "So you better get me one."

Face flushing a little - he was thankful his cheeks were still red from the cold - he laughed lightly and nodded. "Fine, fine. Of course I'll get you one; wouldn't want to break that cold, soulless little heart of yours that seems to warm up a little when around mammals that can survive some of the coldest temperatures on earth." He paused, contemplating this. "Go figure."

Matthew was about to open his mouth and, more than likely, come back with something a little less than polite, when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. An old man dressed in a crisp black suit with an equally crisp black trench coat on was stood there, a serious expression on his face.

"May I help you?" Matt asked, eyes darkening and hazing over in the same way Alfred used to see whenever he ran into the young man at the supermarket.

"Boy, you could use God in your life."

There was silence following his words.

Long, awkward silence and Alfred decided to choose that very moment as the perfect opportunity to contemplate life and to wonder about if he had shut off the stove before he had left his condo.

"Really?" Al glanced to Matthew. He was smirking icily.

Uh-oh._ That _was never good.

"Yes," the man said, sounding firm and full of conviction. "Look at you, what are you doing with your life?"

"Well, not that much," Matthew said, shrugging his shoulders, eyes still blank but somehow sharp. "Dull, I know."

Oh for the love of Christ, the boy was humouring him. And the guy didn't even realize it. Alfred wanted to face palm over it, so he turned around slightly, keeping his face away from the solicitor, and did so.

"Exactly! Which means tha-"

"Frankly, I don't give two sweet shits about the Guy, alright?" Matthew said, propping a hand on his hip and arching an eyebrow. Alfred wanted to wolf-whistle, and say, 'go, sassy-boy, go!' but chose to keep his silence. "I'm twenty-one; I haven't been in a church since I was fifteen and honestly, I don't have time for that shit. So do everyone and a favour and take a hike, okay?"

The man spluttered, while Alfred burst out laughing, unable to keep neutral anymore about the entire situation. "Oh, and let me guess, you've corrupted this upstanding citizen here-" he gestured sharply to Alfred, who choked now instead of laughing "- with your sinful ways, haven't you?"

Matthew glanced at Alfred and smirked, his expression softening somewhat as he looked at the older man, head tilting slightly to the side. "No," he said. "No I haven't."

If only he knew, really.

But then Alfred heard the muttered 'give it time' before the Canadian promptly turned on his heel, leaving the man standing there.

Not wanting to be left there with the other, fuming individual just in case there was a risk that he might have been carrying a fully-loaded weapon (it would not have been at-all surprising to him, really), Alfred jogged after him, latching onto his elbow and tugging the young man close. "Give it time, hm?" he asked coyly, leaning in close and loving how he flushed and went wide-eyed when he realized that Alfred had, indeed, heard him. He dusted his hand through the other's curly, snow-dampened hair. "What makes you think that?"

"I never said anything like that," he said once he recovered, but still not looking at the man beside him. He was chewing heavily upon his lower lip, and by now, it was just as red as his cheeks. "Why the hell would I say something like that?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Alfred purred, moving in closer. They had been friends for almost over a month now, he thought, and they had hung out at least twice a week, and every now and again they spent at least two hours on the phone, discussing some of the stupidest things. He didn't think he would be graced with that sort of thing, ever, but he wasn't going to turn it down any time soon. "I'm certain that's what I heard you say."

"S-Shut up."

"In denial are we?" he snickered, bumping their hips together and peering at the slim man beside him that was blushing an interesting hue of red.

All of a sudden, Matthew turned around and pressed his hand over Alfred's mouth, causing the older man to freeze up, eyes going wide. "Do you, me and the world a favour and just shut the hell up for at least two minutes," the boy said icily, glaring darkly at the American.

From behind his hand, Alfred spluttered, slapping it away. "Why shoul-"

A smack to the chest. "I said shut up, Alfred."

"_Make_ me."

A sharp glare accompanied by another smack to the chest, this one harder than the first. "Don't push it, Princess."

"Why are you so bipolar at times, Mattie?" Alfred whined, stamping his foot and refusing to budge another inch. Snow was still falling overhead, and the scarce amount of people walking through the zoo on a day like this just simply ignored the two men; perhaps they were used to odd things happening. It was New York, after all.

This time, instead of being smacked, there were two fingers placed gently over his lips, and the lawyer positively felt his cheeks begin to burn from their proximity - that being the lithe Canadian practically flush against his chest, fingers on his mouth, and a sly smile curling the corner of his mouth upwards into a smirk, a very familiar one, that the other thought to be dreadfully sexy.

"You're polluting the environment with your pointless babbling," Matthew more or less purred, smirking with a cruel delight as the other twitched slightly beneath his fingers. The soft lips beneath them trembled, and he could tell from the way he was swallowing rapidly that he wanted to lick his lips against the sensation of someone else touching them. "So stop thickening the atmosphere with your banality, melting the polar ice caps with your idioticness, and for the love of God, stop destroying the ozone layer with the multiple cars you have."

Alfred stood there, slack-jawed and wide-eyed as Matthew gave him a smug look, fingers falling from his lips as he resumed walking again, moving with ease through the thin layer of snow covering the ground in Central Park. Not a word left the lawyer despite how hard he tried to speak, and when Matt turned around, still walking, he grinned. "See?" he called back to him. "You're on a roll already!"

"You're a prick."

"I know I'm a charmer; you're so sweet to point that out to me."

And he still had to buy the little fucker a polar bear toy.

Goddamnit.

* * *

Holy seventeen pages, Batman. Longest chapter I've written in terms of pages, but holy fuck I can't believe I got this one out. SO. MUCH. CONTENT. AAAARGH. And there was a giant portion of this cut out, too, so I'll have to save it for a later chapter, but it was supposed to be the two of them going to Starbucks and getting hot chocolate and shit, and Mattie being all "FFUU- I CAN PAY FOR IT MYSELF BITCH." So I'll have to just include that somewhere else because I really wanted to put it in here and just baaaaw. And I was too lazy to go and hunt down whatever errors are in this, so I'll probably find them and deal with them later, when I don't have to work.

Oh, and I totally forgot to point this out last time around, but Jade is my OC for Scotland, so you can expect her to show up in the later chapters of Civil Unrest, as well. Herpherp.

And thanks so much for the comments, faves, alerts, whatevaaa, guys. I feel bad for not replying to them, but honestly, with work and stuff, I don't have all that much time. Like, I feel super bad for not replying to each one, but I'm going to try starting this chapter.

Reviews are love, and as you can tell, they actually make me write faster. XD -hearts- Until next time!


	14. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN.**

By the time they got to Starbucks, it was two in the afternoon and both of them were soaked to the bone from the amount of times they had shoved each other into snow banks - which was probably every five minutes, at a regular time interval. Despite their respective ages, and so-called sense of enlightened maturity, they just could not help but impel one another into the waiting piles. There was no way that one snow bank in Central Park had gotten away from their presence unscathed. As an end result the two of them were nearly frozen, the pair unable to feel their fingers or move their toes; their noses frozen and steadily running as though they were little children. Once they managed to wander their way to the franchise, clinging to each other in order for a purchase of warmth and laughing with a sort of breathlessness, to say that they were elated was an understatement. Starbucks looked as though it were heaven on earth to the two - the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

But then again, if it weren't for the sudden change in the weather, they would have remained outside despite the lack of feeling in almost all of their body parts; beyond the glass of the coffee shop's front window, they watched the snow that was falling even heavier than before and the winds were beginning to pick up quite a bit, whipping the previously dainty little flakes around like tiny projectiles, and outside it was absolutely bitter; the temperature must have dropped by at least fifteen degrees within the last hour of them being in the park.

The coffee shop, however, was a warm and snug haven against the arctic world beyond the thick glass of the storefront that gave them a view of the Manhattan traffic slowly chugging by at a crawling pace. For this reason, they were glad the weather had changed as suddenly as it did and prompted them to run to the safety of the nearest place that sold hot beverages. The booth the two shared was towards the back of the room, tucked snugly away from the world but close enough to the fireplace to feel the heat coming from it. The American was seated on one side of the booth while his younger companion was stretched the length of the other side, polar bear toy set on the table and pressed up against the wall, overlooking the two with black, glassy eyes. Its fur was soft, white, almost velvety to the touch, and around its neck was a knitted red scarf; very childish in make but the Canadian had fawned with delight when he had seen it, which was what prompted Alfred to purchase that particular one instead of a plain white polar bear.

The toy had been lovingly named Kumajiro, and within the past two hours of ownership, the Canadian had already butchered his name several times for the fact of being unable to properly remember it.

Alfred had suggested he name the bear Carl simply because it would be easy enough to remember, but no, apparently that wasn't good enough; he just _had _to go with something as inane as Kumajiro. Of course.

It was because the littler fucker was artistic and that was how he rolled.

Music, something that sounded like jazz mixed with an indie-rock type of music, played softly over the speakers, helping to give the establishment a homey sort of feel to it. Not that it did not have one to begin with, but the soft music playing over the speakers simply added to the place. Shucking off his jacket, Alfred draped it in the corner of the booth and stretched, grimacing at how his sweater had gotten wet through the material of his warm coat. There were patches of mild dampness, and places where the fabric had gotten completely saturated from the snow seeping in through the seams; so much for a good, quality coat these days. Blonde hair stuck off messily, his cheeks and the tip of his nose were bright red, and he still shivered despite how warm it was in the building. Despite all this, it was pleasant to feel so freezing cold, pleasant to feel numb all over except for on the right side of his body, where Matthew had been pressed the full length of him, cuddling in close at the lawyer's offer to provide him some warmth until they got to the coffee shop. He had been surprised when the younger man agreed - very surprised indeed.

From the other side of the table, Matthew observed the lawyer quietly as he removed his own beige parka, frowning minutely when he found his own flannel shirt was in the same state of soaked disarray. It should not have been surprising, but his frown was filled with slight dismay at finding his darkly coloured shirt to be drenched. Piling his jacket in the same sloppy manner as what the other did, he stretched lazily and shook his hand through his curly hair, trying to get the excess water of melted snow out of the locks, spraying the little droplets down over his clothing, only succeeding in making what he wore wetter and colder. At this he grumbled and sighed, giving another languid stretch before flopping back, looking sleepy and thoroughly tuckered out from their childish adventure in the park.

The hazed-over look on the other's face caused Alfred to give a small smile, and he observed the man with a sort of contentment. He looked sedate, just lying there and curled up like a cat would in front of a fireplace, basking in the warmth and glow of the flames. "Sleepy?" he teased with a quiet chuckle, leaning back as he stuffed his hands under his arms, trying to get some warmth back into them before he tried to go over and get them something warm to drink and eat; there was nothing like having frozen fingers while trying to sign for a credit card, fumbling like an idiot with the pen while trying to scratch out his name.

In response, he was given a slow nod and sloppy grin as the Canadian curled up in his corner of their booth, resting his head back against the wall, staring out across the shop and over to the windows. "I'm so tired now; it's been a while since I've gotten this much fresh air in one go," he said softly, still smiling that dazed little smile of his. Then, he looked directly over to him, tearing his eyes away from whatever it was beyond the glass that was fascinating him for the time being - perhaps it was the way the snow was falling that had enraptured him. "That was fun."

Wiggling his fingers, grimacing as his knuckles cracked (presumably, they were after finally defrosting a bit), Alfred smiled, trying to hold back a yawn; he hadn't realized how tired he was after getting, either. "Same here," he said. Fresh air could be such a potent source; he remembered how, when he was a little boy and living in Lowell, his mother would get him to spend all his time outdoors, especially during the winter, so that he would actually sleep at night. As he mulled on this, he realized that he could not wait to crawl into bed and just sleep, letting Oreo curl up with him and not bother with coming-to until at least twelve the next day. "I usually drive everywhere, and none of the guys I know are quite as free-spirited as you, Mattie. I think they would all rather hang themselves than go out and do what we did this afternoon."

Lazily turning his head in the direction of the other once more, he pressed his cheek up against the wall and gave another small chuckle. "Your friends sound dreadfully boring."

"I don't know if I would call them _friends_," Alfred said, turning his gaze away to stare in the direction Matthew had been previously fixated on. He focused on the patterns the falling snow created, following the flakes with dull aquamarine optics.

Frowning at the sudden change in the American's mood, he leant forward and tilted his head to the side. "Why do you say that?" he inquired gently, trying to ignore the burst of cold air into the warm shop as another two men entered the place. It was so warm in there, so comfortable, that they just had to come in and ruin the toastiness of the place.

Alfred shrugged. He still wouldn't look over at Matthew, much to the Albertan's chagrin. "I 'unno," he said. "Like, I go drinking with them and stuff, and we used to dick around in university like the assholes we were, but I don't know if I'd go as far as considering them my friends. Not now, at least. They've changed, and so have I. Their idea of fun is going and getting loaded, competing in golf tournaments, bragging about their fuckin' trophy wives and then talking about their cars. My idea of fun is getting loaded, going out wandering around everywhere, playing videogames and having fun. Maybe they've just grown up and I haven't, at least not in my eyes. Depressing business, really."

"Well, hey, that happens, right?" Matt asked, somewhat rhetorically, watching the other closely. He noted, with some disdain, that the man across from him just looked so sad and lost, like a baby sheep. With a tender smile on his face, he gently reached across the space and lightly punched him on the shoulder, his expression somewhat affectionate. "You're just a big kid at heart. At least you're not a stick in the mud, right?"

A soft chuckle escaped Alfred at the words, and he tilted his head to the side a little, watching the other over the rims of his glasses. The concern in his eyes seemed to be genuine, or as genuine as someone like the Canadian in question could make it, and it warmed the man to know that. Warmed him more and in a way that the fireplace just beside them was not capable of. For a brief moment, he let their knuckles graze, swallowing thickly at the contact, revelling in the moment, the feel, the softness and the anxiety he was all at once filled with. The two locked eyes, something made itself know, and Alfred didn't quite know what it was but it made his heart flutter.

"W-What do you want to drink?" he asked, voice still quiet; it was as if he were afraid to speak up louder than necessary in the quaint little Starbucks location. It was just so relaxing in there, and he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to either of them, despite how much he loved it when all eyes were on him. But in a place like this, and with someone like the young man across from him, he couldn't help but long for a little bit of privacy. Watching as the other turned around and hauled a five dollar bill from his wallet, Alfred frowned when the money was handed to him. "I don't want your money," he snipped, waving it away dismissively with a snort of derision, "I'll buy for both of us."

"Uh, how about no?"

"Uh, how about yes?"

"Al, I can pay for it myself."

"And it's pointless when I have credit cards with every major credit corporation in North America, and several European ones to boot."

"Shut up, _Moneybags_, and let the poor boy exert his dominance by paying for his own drink."

"Dude, just shut _up_ and let me buy it for you, alright?" Alfred groaned, shoving the hand away once more and rolling his eyes. "Stop being such a man about it."

Matthew flushed bright red, but he finally relented, slumping down in his spot. "I'll have a large white hot chocolate," he mumbled, shaking his head and sniffing. Arms were folded over his slim chest in a gesture of petulant defiance but he made no move to try and give him the money again.

**MISSION: PAY FOR MATTHEW'S DRINK.  
**"Aw, ain't that cute?"  
"Like two assholes on their first date."  
_Operation status: Complete; __Success__.  
__Achievement points unlocked: 150G_

Laughter left him, and Alfred looked properly smug. "Glad to hear," he said with a smirk, watching as he returned the five dollar bill to his pocket once more, glaring sullenly across the table.

Turning around and leaving him without another word, gloating silently to himself and adding another point to the score chart (_Alfred_: two. _Matthew_: 9481 x 10²) as he waltzed over to the counter, extracting his wallet from his pants pocket, looking up at the menu, grumbling darkly as two young men pushed past him. One of them, a brunette with an oddly stuck off piece of hair (much like his own) gave him an apologetic look as though he were apologizing for the presence of the shorter man with a shock of white-blonde hair. Alfred smiled weakly before turning back to the counter and giving the woman on the other side of coy, sweet smile.

"Hello, Sir," she said in a flat voice. Despite how indifferent she obviously was trying to be to his existence, she blushed deeply and Alfred delighted in the flush that crept along her cheeks; God, he loved having that effect on women, especially pretty ones, like the Asiatic one behind the counter. Didn't even have to try; just had to flash a sweet little smile and BAM weak knees like an old lady.

"Hey, I was wondering if I be able to have a large white hot chocolate, a large Caffé Americano, and two pieces of that strawberry cheesecake?" he asked with a slightly drawl, is vocal infliction being played upon a little heavier than usual, still smiling at her as he pointed to the two remaining pieces of cake on the other side of the display case's glass.

The young woman, who appeared to be Vietnamese, did not look impressed with his presence - not one little bit. "Is that all, _Sir_?" she asked, cracking her bubblegum saucily, deep brown eyes narrowed into slits as she straightened out her forest green apron.

For a moment, Alfred simply stood there, blinking slowly and wondering just what the hell it was he had done to piss the girl off; it would probably be nice before she whipped out some sort of rice paddle and beat him to death with the damn thing. Then he gave her a weak smile and nodded. "Yeah," he murmured, glancing back to the table, and doing a sharp double take when he saw the brunette and silver-haired man from just a few moments before sitting down in the booth he had left Matthew alone in. A scowl formed on his face, deeply marring his features and he huffed spitefully, pursing his lips slightly.

"Your total is $17.76," she said, following his gaze and smirking a little. Then, as though she had noticed the frown on the customer's face and the saddened look - so much for privacy with the Canadian - her eyes went wide and she grinned. It was the kind of grin that said 'I know something you don't know, and there's no fucking way I'm telling you what it is'. Then she frowned thoughtfully. "Do you want your drinks in paper cups or would you like to purchase two reusable mugs instead?"

Locking his eyes back on the woman, he nodded slowly, a shy smile crossing his face; Matthew would rather use the reusable mug over a paper one; that much he was certain of. "Yes," he said, nodding. "I'll have those in two reusable mugs."

"So that brings your total to $19.41," she said, and the smile she wore lost a little bit of its initial harshness. Handing her his Amex card, he watched as she swiped it through the debit terminal and then handed the card back to him. A moment later he was handed a receipt and a pen, which he used to quickly sign the paper handed to him, and he handed it back to the woman, glancing over his shoulder again at the two men seated in the booth with the Canadian.

Damn it all.

Stepping off to the side and taking the two plates of cheesecake he had purchased - a New York strawberry cheesecake that was decked with fresh chunks of berry and a thick, gooey red sauce - as he watched the other woman behind the counter, a bright-eyed brunette with a daisy tucked behind an ear, make his and Matthew's respective drinks. The hot chocolate, he decided with a small smile, smelt absolutely heavenly. Taking the cup that belong to Matt with a nod of thanks, he set that one down and then took his own coffee, reaching for the carton of milk and pouring some in, mixing in a few packets of sugar as he went before attempting to balance the two cups and plates in either hand without dropping anything. As long as he moved slowly, hung the drinks from his thumbs by their handles and kept a plate in either hand, he decided as he took measured steps (thank God the table wasn't too far away), eyes flickering between the floor and watching the space in front of him.

Thankfully enough (someone must have listened to him today) he made it back to the table without incident and he handed Matthew his plate of cheesecake and his mug of hot chocolate, delighting in how the young man's eyes positively lit up. Another point for the home team today, old chap.

He did not miss, however, the icily cold glare he received from the platinum-haired man seated on the other side of the table. In his eyes was a look of utter ire, and something allusive to envy. The hell was that all about?

Sliding in to sit beside the Canadian, he smirked at the young man across from him before sipping on his coffee, inwardly grimacing as it burnt his tongue. Before turning to his food, Matthew lightly nudged Alfred's thigh with his own thin one and gave him a small smile of thanks, grinning lightly up at the other. In return, Alfred nudged him back and grinning. From the corner of his eye he could see the platinum-haired man's expression grow to be nothing less than thunderous.

"I still can't believe you never told me, Gil," Matthew mumbled, glowering across the table at the blonde, stabbing at his cake somewhat ferociously. The brunette with an odd cows lick flinched at the violent gesture, looking away with a sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose as though it would relieve him of some of the obvious stress he was feeling.

"I'm sorry I didn't, Birdie," the other said - presumably Gil (probably short for something, or who knows what), sipping from his cup of whatever the fuck it was. "I just figured you'd be mad an-"

"Yes, yes I _am_ mad," Matthew snapped, eyes heated as he set down his fork and leaning back against the padding of the seat. "You have no idea how fucking rotted I am about this shit."

The blonde sighed, setting down his cup and looking away, propping his cheek in his palm and staring out to the windows. There was a disappointed look upon his icy white face, and Alfred wasn't sure if the man was disappointed in himself or with the Canadian's harsh reaction. "Birdie, I thought you said you were over m-"

Matthew's cheeks had flushed an interesting shade of red, the brunette looked between the two with wide eyes that had just suddenly realized something and goddamnit, Alfred felt he would have been better off just getting rid of the light bulb altogether because he felt so in the dark with all of this. "I _am_, Gilbert," Matt said, voice crisp but a soft look upon his face - it was tender, warm, and it was a look his friend had never seen before. From the corner of his eye he watched as Gilbert bit the corner of his lip and stared at the cup in front of him. "I'm just pissed that you didn't come to me and tell me, nor did you tell me _anything. _'Cause, y'know, friends tell each other shit and they don't leave them in the dark about dating their goddamn _boss_."

And then the Canadian slammed his head down on the table.

Oh. _That_ was what this was all about.

Watching his unmoving friend now with a look of mild concern on his lean features, Alfred glanced between the back of his head and to the two on the other side of the table. "I'm _really_ confused," he said in a flat voice.

"You're not the only one," the brunette muttered, rubbing his face slowly, moving his glasses out of the way as he did so.

"Oh shut up, Specs," Gilbert groaned, rubbing at his temple and sighing slightly.

Eyes that were almost purple flashed dangerously and the brunette - lovingly dubbed Specs, much to the pleasure of the American's wry sense of humour - flushed an interesting shade that could not have been healthy by any means. "Call me Specs again, you pint-sized little punk."

"_Specs_."

Specs' eye twitched and he slapped the other hard across the back of the head, earning a yelp from the tiny, pale-skinned man that was now nursing the back of his head with a dismayed look upon his face.

And all Alfred was beginning to wonder was if Matthew was still conscious.

So it would seem that was the thought on the other's mind as well. "Is he dead?" Gilbert asked, pointing at the seemingly inert Canadian beside the lawyer. There was a concerned look upon his face, and he reached across the space and prodded the top of the head of blonde curls. "I think he might be."

"That's unfortunate," Alfred commented mildly, prodding at his side, sliding the tips of his fingers down along his ribs (_ribs he should not have been able to feel so easily_) and then back up, eliciting a yelp from Matthew and forcing the youngest at the table to jolt up into a sitting position and to jerk sharply away. His forehead was after turning to a lovely shade of red. He smirked, leaning back and grinning across the table at Gilbert. "See? Nothing to worry about."

"Fuck you, Al," Matthew said, pointing his fork at the American and scowling darkly. Then he promptly returned to nibbling daintily upon his piece of cheesecake, a look of utter bliss appearing on his pale face. "Amazing," he mumbled, looking wholly focused on the dessert before him. The smallest of smiles crossed the other's face as he finally started in on his own piece of cake, humming his own approval.

"Shit, we're late," Gilbert said suddenly, making to stand and grabbing his cup of coffee in the process.

"I told you we would be late," the brunette sniffed, shaking his head lightly as he moved to get off of the thickly cushioned bench. A sigh left him. "But no, you just had to insist we go to Starbucks before we went to the movie when we could have very well waited until after."

"Roderich?"

"Yes?"

"Stop bein' such a priss and just shut up already."

Spluttering on Roderich's behalf caused the two still seated to laugh lightly, Alfred chuckling into his mug of piping-hot coffee while Matt snickered around the fork in his mouth, giving a crooked grin to the two.

Trust in the oddest couple on the face of the earth, or at least currently residing in New York, to provide something small to chuckle at for the time being.

When the two were gone, Alfred moved to stand - the intention was to go and sit back over on the side he had been originally curled up on, to give Matthew back his space. He was stopped by a hand tugging him back down to sit, and with wide eyes he looked to Matt. The Canadian was quietly sipping from his hot chocolate, a dull blush on his cheeks, the colour lightly dusting across his usually translucent flesh. "You can … stay there," he mumbled, keeping his gaze locked firmly on the back of the seats across from them, his birdlike hands tight on the gray and green mug. His hands were trembling slightly and he was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

He felt heat creep up along his neck and into his cheeks, but said nothing; simply remained there beside Matthew, sipping his coffee with a contemplative expression on his face. They were seated so close together that Alfred could feel the heat coming from the other's body. He really wanted to put his arm around him, if anything at all, but it was too early to make a move like that. They had known each other, personally, for a month now, almost two really, and he didn't want to do that; there was the risk of either:

a) Creeping him out.  
b) Getting (another) elbow in the face.  
c) Jeopardizing the friendship that they had finally managed to stabilize.  
d) All of the above options.

And he didn't like _any_ of those options. So, he kept his arms to himself and finished off his cheesecake in a content silence, a tiny smile upon his face as he finished chewing the last piece, deciding then to set in on the rest of his coffee.

"They have the best cheesecake I have ever had," Matthew mumbled, his expression that of the utmost seriousness as he finished off his own piece, scraping the remnants of strawberry, cream cheese and crumbs from the plate, licking off his fork with a grin. "And I've had some damn good cheesecake before."

Chuckling lightly, he sipped his coffee, watching as the other took up his mug of hot chocolate and smiled, running his fingers along the smooth surface of the reusable mug. Their eyes met for a brief moment, Matthew's gaze softened as he still grinned and then they both look away, Alfred feeling warmth creep its way up even further into his cheeks.

Some time was spent sitting in a companionable silence, the two men resting beside one another - Matthew had eventually migrated back to the corner of the booth to curl up slightly, his back to the wall and shoes removed (much to Al's delight, he saw that the younger man was wearing Spongebob Squarepants socks) as he made himself at home. Alfred, on the other hand, was stretched off with his feet (also devoid of shoes at this point) propped up on the bench across from him, slumped down with his head resting back against the wood. Eyes were partially shut and he drained back what was left of his coffee, humming softly with delight as he set his new mug down on the table, flipping the lid shut. He noticed the Canadian had already long-since finished his own beverage and was looking with some mild interest through a novel.

Perking up slightly, Alfred leaned over, bracing himself with the palm of his hand. "Where'd you get that?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Glancing up, Matt shrugged. "I found it there on the table," he said with a flippant gesture towards a more concealed part of the table. "Maybe someone left it behind as one of those books for people to read and then leave behind as well. Maybe there's some sort of valuable message to be learned that they felt needed to be shared amongst the pretentious, coffee-guzzling traffic of Starbucks."

Frowning a bit and sniffing with mild amusement, he shook his head. "But wouldn't that make us pretentious as well?" Al prodded, shifting a little so that he could peer over Matthew's shoulder at the book, remain comfortable and give the artist his space all at once.

"Of course not," Matthew quipped, adjusting the novel so that the other could look at it, moving a little to the side to create some space for him to be comfortable. The gesture was rewarded with a small smile of thanks. "We're too amazing to be considered pretentious."

"Ah," Alfred said, managing to squirm so that he rested comfortably between Matthew and the back of the booth, relishing their closeness. From their proximity - how close it was - he could smell the younger man's hair; papaya, citrus and something that smelt faintly of watermelon. The tiniest of smiles formed upon his face and he sighed softly. "What book is this, anyway?"

Slight shuffling and he turned the cover around. "It's called The Lemur," he intoned, humming with a thoughtful expression upon his face. "The thing sounds interesting enough, when I read the back. Murder mystery, takes place in New York." He snorted. "What murder mystery _doesn't _take place in New York, for the love of Christ?"

Alfred laughed. "True enough," he said pleasantly. "It's the reason I have a job."

He wasn't expecting Matthew to laugh at this - what he was expecting, however, was for the young man to scoff, give him a saucy reply and the return to his book - but, he did. Dark eyes lit up, the man's lips curled into a smile, and he went back to reading. And during this, Alfred felt positively elated. So, resting his head to the side, blonde hair going flat against the dark green velour seats, he let his eyes flutter shut while the other continued to read the book that wasn't his, neither of them wanting to move due to the warmth of one another's body and the sheer comfort of the way they sat together, not quite touching but comfortable enough and so that neither one of them were slipping off of the seat.

And when he opened his eyes again - he didn't know how much time had passed; all he knew was that the sky outside was pitch black - he felt groggy; his limbs were numb all over. In his state of such comfort, he had actually fallen asleep. Eyes going wide with shock he made the move to sit up, but found that it was impossible because of the firm weight pressed against him. Glancing down, he found Matthew curled in against his side, breathing evenly and deeply, eyes shut and glasses knocked askew from having his face pressed in against the American's chest. Their ankles were locked together, his left leg draped across Alfred's right one and curled in around it to keep their ankles pressed together, and a pale, delicate hand was fisted into the material of his shirt. At the sight his breath hitched sharply and he chewed his lower lip, hesitantly reaching out and running a finger along his curls, blushing at the audacity of the action; he had no problem with this sort of thing when it came to other people, in fact he was usually emboldened by doing so, but for some reason this little Northerner made him second guess every little thing he did, every little word he said. No one had ever made him do that before, be it intentionally or not.

He felt like he was taking advantage of the situation, by allowing the young man to remain curled into his side while he ran his fingers through his hair in a manner most dazed, so he gently shook Matthew awake, smiling softly when he finally managed to rouse the man. Indigo eyes were bleary and he yawned, running a hand through his hair and adjusting his glasses. Along his right cheek, where it had been pressed against his shirt, was the imprint of the seam and it was bright red. Staring for a long moment, Matthew simply watched Alfred, expression dull and uncomprehending. Then he yawned, covering his mouth.

"Time s'it?" he mumbled, still not moving any further than what he had, remaining partially curled into the American. This caused Alfred to flush deeply and bite the inside of his cheek with an anxious anticipation. It was only because he was still half-asleep, he reminded himself sharply. That was the _only _reason why.

Fishing out his cell phone from his still-damp jeans pocket, loathe of disturbing the other, he glanced at the screen and then looked again with wide eyes. "It … it's nine o'clock," he said weakly, running a hand through his hair. "We've been here for seven hours now, and asleep for about six. Wow."

Light chuckles, and much to his surprise and utter delight, Matthew flopped back against him, yawning once more. "I didn't sleep for as long as you did," he murmured softly, scratching his collar bone and looking up to the blushing American. "Probably four hours or so; when I finished reading that book you were already sound asleep."

Alfred arched an eyebrow. "Really? In that short of a time?"

He nodded. "It was only short," he said with a shrug of nonchalance. "No more than two hundred pages, so it was easy to get through."

A thoughtful hum left him, and once more he let his head rest back. But this time, he didn't shut his eyes; he just relaxed there, letting his muscles sag uselessly. There was no good in either of them going back to sleep at this point. "Was it any good?" he inquired, absently drumming his fingers on the table, trying desperately to resist the urge to run them through the other's hair once again.

"Mmm, yeah," he said softly, and Alfred felt Matthew nod against his chest. His face got even warmer when the young man curled in even closer, yawning, his hand returning to the spot it had previously been latched onto. "I wasn't expecting much - I mean, how can you properly wrap up a murder mystery in less than two hundred pages? - but I was pretty impressed by the writer's execution of events, and he most certainly had a way with words; a rather gripping story. You should read it, too."

Reaching over to the table and groping about blindly along the surface until he found the spine of the novel, he plucked it up and studied the cover. A man smoking and exhaling a cloud of smoke. He grinned. "Looks like a good book," he chuckled. This earned him a pinch in the ribs, which caused him to whine pathetically, squirming slightly and then huffing when Matthew sat upright finally, stretching lazily and then leaning back against the cushiony seat, smiling slightly at the American.

Deciding that it would be a good time to sit up as well, Alfred grimaced when his back cracked from the sudden motion, legs cramping up slightly as he moved in an attempt to straighten them out better and get a little bit of feeling back into them - their ankles were still locked together, he noted dutifully, but how he did not know. He grimaced, hand going to his back as he cracked his neck. The smile fell from the other's face and he looked away, wringing his hands. "Sorry about falling asleep on you like that," Matthew mumbled, chewing upon his lip, tugging at the ends of his sleeves.

"It's okay," Alfred said, grin off-kilter as he pressed his back flat against the wall this time. "I don't mind."

For a moment Matthew studied him, expression serious, eyes sharp behind glasses that needed to be replaced and desperately so, and then finally he smiled softly. He said nothing, simply stretched lazily and flopped back onto his stomach, burying his face in Alfred's side, causing the other to tense for a brief moment.

"More sleep," was the muffled grumble from his side.

Laughing outright, Alfred made the Canadian sit upright, sitting properly as well and shaking his head lazily. He was glared at darkly, a lower lip stuck out in a childish pout, and he flicked the other on the nose. "Let's go out and hail a cab," he said. "It's late, and they're probably closing up here soon."

There was a brief grumble, and he thought Matthew was actually going to delcine the offer, but to his surprise there was a sigh of resignation and the Canadian slipped out of the booth, taking the cup his hot chocolate had previously been in. He was unsteady on his legs for a few seconds, but then he straightened up, stretching languidly, rolling his arms backwards to work the kinks out. "We might as well," he said, looking back at the other with a sort of reluctance clouding his expression. Then he made a grabbing motion with his pale hand. "May I have my coat, please?"

"Tch, always so polite," Alfred snickered, passing the jacket over to the younger man. "Must be because of the fact that you're so damn Canadian."

"Oh, shut up."

"Eh."

"I said shut _up_."

"Eh."

"Bitch, you _better _shut your whore mouth."

"Eh."

"_Seriously_ man, I'll break your goddamn _face_."

"Eh."

A sopping wet mitten collided violently and unexpectedly with his face, a face that he really did not want broken, and Alfred decided he totally deserved it for once. Except for having his mouth called a whore; that just wasn't very nice. At all.

Launching the dripping glove at the owner's face, he slid out of the booth and wandered over to the other side, grabbing his own jacket and shouldering the still-damp material, not bothering to see whether it hit the target or not. He smirked when he heard the Canadian grumbling darkly beneath his breath, voice somewhat menacing - must have been a direct impact. '_Passive-aggressive much_?' he thought with mild humour, chuckling lightly as he approached the other who had already bundled up, more than prepared for the frozen tundra of a city beyond the confines of the shop. Eyes flashed in his direction, somewhat hostile, and then the other puffed his cheeks in a manner that was no less than childish.

"Don't give me that look, you little brat," Alfred mumbled, glaring good-naturedly at the younger man that gave a disdainful sniff.

"Stuff it, old man," Matthew snarked, grinning icily when the older man spluttered in an offended manner.

Light bickering followed it, much to the amusement of the patrons of the shop - including the brunette with the flower tucked behind her ear, who may or may not have been positively squealing with an unabashed delight when she had happened upon the two men curled up and sound asleep in the booth earlier on.

Picking up his own mug, he pulled on his mittens and removed his wallet from his pants pocket, slipping it into the side pocket of his jacket and grimacing as they set out into the night air. Snow still fell, but at least the pseudo-squall had abated some time ago, leaving nothing more than a snow globe effect in its wake. It was colder than it had been in a long time, and the chill of the bitter air permeated him straight through to the marrow of his bones.

Beside him, the Canadian walked at a leisurely pace, looking at his mug. "We totally should have gotten more hot chocolate," he said with a pout, humming sadly.

Snorting, Alfred shook his head. "You're probably right," he commented idly, scanning the street for any sign of one of New York's staple, yellow taxis. There was only one in sight, and it was still a little bit away from them. He was about to hail the one when he saw it pull up closer to them, chugging along with a caution unusual for most cab drivers, but Matthew tugged his arm down, latching onto it and grinning over at the other. They watched as the cab kept on driving down the road, and Alfred's shoulders sagged a little.

"Why'd you do that?" he demanded, vexed and gesturing sharply to the cab that had just turned off onto Broadway. "We could have gotten that one."

"I live not too far from here," he said. "So why don't we walk and then you can just hail a taxi from my place. Save you some money?"

Alfred whined. "But it's so _cold_ out," he whimpered, pressing close to the lithe Canadian at his side. He felt so warm compared to the temperatures that had surely dropped well below the freezing point.

Snorting, the action prompted by the childish complaint, Matthew gave a half-smile and shook his head. "Try living through temperatures that are -47ºC and then come back to me and tell me this is cold weather," he said smoothly, adjusting his hood with one hand and letting go of the American's arm, still giving him a wry smile.

He huffed spitefully, but said nothing more and just continued to walk. While it would have been nice to call for a taxi, like he had originally wanted to, this was nice, too. Maybe even better, really, when he thought about it. The smelly backseat of a cab was hell compared to walking in the crisp air. There weren't as many people out at this hour as there would normally be, and the bitter end-of-January weather was probably the source; he did not know why people would try to avoid it - everything looked so beautiful. Store fronts covered in snow, parked cars coated as well. Streelights had a sheen of ice covering them, and despite being on one of the busiest side-streets in the city, traffic was practically non-existent - every few minutes or so a lone vehicle would drive down along the road, marring the thin layer of snow on the road. It was unusual to find such a sense of serenity in the Big Apple, but here it was, spread out before them and just waiting.

The one thing about New York that attracted him so much, that kept him there, was the way everything looked at night; the place became a different world altogether - it was beautiful, the way the flourescent lights would reflect off of all the glass surfaces, neon colours bouncing back and keeping everything around them perfectly illuminated as though it were only early in the evening, not nighttime.

What he did _not_ like was how he could not see the sky - stars, moon, the shade of midnight blue that was so dark it was blacker than anything - no matter the time of year. The lights prevented all that, pollution keeping a layer of clouds at all times above them. In Lowell, it had been different, and when he had stayed in Maine for a month or so, on the Cape, it had been very different there, as well. An endless expanse of ocean, sky and freedom. Not this land-locked, dirty-bayed city of more than eight million people.

Sure, they said New York was the home of freedom - where else would the Statue of Liberty be able to reside? - but how could one call it freedom when they didn't have the space to roam outside of the jurisdiction of the cab drivers and hot dog vendors?

Groaning inwardly, he had to force himself not to rub at his face; he really needed to get out of the city, and desperately so. The moment the snow was gone, he was going to get out of New York, even if only for a day or two. Glancing furtively towards the other, he wondered if Matthew would join him for it; whenever he was around the younger man he always got the sense that he felt trapped in the confines of the metropolis. And considering he grew up on the Prairies, a vast expanse of beautiful land, it was no wonder - had Alfred been he, the lawyer would have already gone crazy from climbing the walls with the need to get _out._

"You're awfully quiet," Matthew murmured, gently tugging at his sleeve, looking over at him with mild concern in his eyes. Snowflakes clung to his long lashes, and Al smiled lightly.

"Just thinking," he repiled gently, hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced up at the sky he wished he could see.

"A dangerous hobby of yours," came the quiet chuckle, and all Alfred could think was if only he really knew. Guilt ate at him for a brief moment, lapping at the edges of his mind before he managed to push it away.

"Ha-ha, you're a funny one, aren't you?" he snorted, shaking his head slowly.

In reply, Matthew merely bumped their hips together and kept walking, saying nothing more but still smiling. Neither of them saw a reason to break their companionable silence, and they only stopped for a moment to listen to some buskers playing a combination of guitars, bongos and a tambourine. When they continued walking, he did not miss the Canadian's movement to place a twenty down in the hat they had set up, his hand returning to rest discreetly in his pocket as he quicked his pace to keep up with the other.

"Are there ever times when you just want to get out of the city?" Alfred asked, voice calm, his expression serene.

He could feel Matthew's eyes upon him, and he wasn't surprised when the answer was yes. "Why do you ask?"

Shrugging one shoulder, he made a thoughtful noise. "Just curious," he said, frowning softly when he realized they had already arrived at Greg's place - and now Matthew's apartment, from what he had learned from the other. They stopped walking and stood outside the house, Alfred looking at the ground and the artist staring down the road.

"I'd like to get out of New York," Matt said quietly, expression faraway and contemplative all at once. "I don't know if I'd go back to Alberta though - too many memories to face, and I don't think I'd ever be ready for something like that. Maybe I'd like to live on the coast; near the ocean. Maybe Maine, or New Brunswick. Hell, I'd go for Newfoundland if I had to. Something that's clean, spacious, and not a cluttered glory-hole like this place is."

Disappointment filled both their expressions when a cab turned down the road they were stood on, and Alfred decided then that he would grab that one; who knew how long he would be stood there waiting for another one to come by?

"Call me when you get to your place," Matthew said suddenly. "So I know you got back just fine, alright?"

"Sure thing," Al replied, ducking his head slightly to hide his smile. "You sound like my mother."

Laughter, sweet and clear, rang out from the other, and Matthew simply shook his head. "Someone has to, eh?" He smirked a little as he turned, making his way up the front steps.

And Alfred was still laughing when he hailed the cab to take him home.

* * *

So this was all supposed to be part of the last chapter. Um. That would have been a lot for one posting, so maybe it's a good thing I broke it all up? Ahah, yeah. I think my brain is broken from the cute though. AND IF YOU CAN TELL ME WHICH TWO NATIONS WERE WORKING AT STARBUCKS, YOU'LL WIN THE INTERNETS~ I think I made it obvious enough. BT

But yay early update. -happy tear plz-

The "Like two assholes on their first date" quote does not belong to me, but to whoever wrote the dialogue in Gears of War. Brilliant job there, guys. Brilliant.

Thanks so much for the reviews and everything you guys! Until next time~


	15. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN.**

If there was any one detail of work that Matthew Williams hated the most, it was working on cash. While he loved stocking shelves, filling out product order forms, straightening up the warehouse and doing whatever mundane, menial task the grocery manager wanted him to do, he was loathe of working on the front end when they needed someone else to open up a lane when it was far too busy for the store to function.

And because he was the only cash-trained associate available ninety-nine percent of the time, they always got him to open up.

_Always._

Sighing softly to himself as he steadily scanned and bagged, scanned and bagged, Matthew kept his eyes turned downwards and focused on the items passing through his hands. Campbell's Tomato Soup, chicken noodle soup, cream of mushroom soup, cream a celery soup - what the fuck kind of shit is that? - Spaghetti-O's, Zoodles. He turned his gaze for a brief moment to glance down the belt as he closed the bag of cans he had finished bagging, leaning over to the side and blindly setting the package down as he studied the other items there. Inwardly, he turned his nose up. There was so much processed food in everyone's diet nowadays; no wonder there were so many unhealthy people.

He sighed once more, and turned his attention back to the microwave dinners he was ringing through, shifting his weight from one foot the other for a brief moment before settling back down again.

It was so unbearably monotonous, that Matthew thought he was actually on the verge of going crazy(er) with boredom.

Scan, bag, scan, bag, scan, bag.

Over and over and over again. He bit his lower lip, tugging it in and worrying it until it was crimson to keep himself from groaning aloud. Why did they have to take him from grocery to come and open up on cash when they could have easily just called in someone else to work a shift for that day? Were they seriously that understaffed that there was no one else they could bring in? Honestly, if Roderich needed to hire anyone for the front end - or any department for that matter - Williams was quite certain that there were a few people he knew that could stand for jobs. While there was a good chance not all of them were proper candidates, there were two or three of them that he figured would make good cashiers.

"Your total is $219.34," he murmured, voice quiet. The woman handed him a VISA and he took it, swiping it quickly down the side of the terminal before handing it back to her with a tiny smile. Then, he passed her the debit slip and a pen, tucked beneath it her receipt. "Sign this, please?"

The woman quickly scratched something relatively illegible (which might have been easy to read if one read Arabic) and then handed him back the slip. He smiled at her and slipped the debit paper into his till. "Have a nice day, ma'am."

She smiled back at him, pushing her cart and tugging along her unruly children - a mischievous-looking husband included in that category - as he turned to the next customer, an elderly woman that had at least double the amount of groceries as the previous woman. The woman looked positively ancient, and he found himself wondering if she should really be out on her own like that, grocery shopping; shouldn't she have been in an old age home or something? Really, come on now; from the looks of it she had to be in at least her late eighties, early nineties. That woman was _no _spring chicken.

Stifling the groan that threatened to spill out, he instead gave her a forced, but nonetheless brilliant, smile before he moved to start scanning her groceries. The woman positively _glared _at him before slapping down a can of green beans on the belt.

Oh, joy. _More _canned food.

A crazy old bat and processed grub. The perfect combination.

As he scanned her items (and silently picked apart every little thing he saw and mentally went over why he did not like it), it was then that Matthew discovered just how picky of an eater he was. No wonder he never bought groceries, even when he could afford it; the thought of eating canned food made him sick to his stomach, but in order to eat good, healthy food that had not been through every piece of dirty, tainted machinery processed by underpaid and unprotected workers, that meant he had to spend money - and what money was that supposed to be, precisely? And to whom, exactly, did it belong? Because it certainly was not his money, not in the slightest. Which was why he remained a scrap of humanity - because he had been spoilt, as a child, in terms of his diet. Only the highest quality food would do for him simply for the fact that it was all he could really stomach.

Which was why, he realized as he lugged a case of eight two litre drinks across the scanner with a grunt, he managed to eat whatever Alfred cooked so easily and without feeling the urge to gag as he tried. The man cooked with actual foods and oils, not using butter as grease or anything that had been taken out of a tin can from the store shelves. Hefting up the case he had just struggled with scanning, he carried it over to the woman's empty cart, setting it down with a huff, biting his lips as he cracked his knuckles in a way that was no less than seriously painful. The American was spoiling him rotten, and he hadn't even asked for anything. A tiny smile quirked the corner of his lips upwards and he bit the inside of his lips, feeling his face warm up a little bit upon thinking of the other.

Glancing to the spot holding all the groceries, and then to the elderly woman that stared at him expectantly, Matthew gave a soft sound of resignation. Turning to the pile of bags that was there, he started to load them into the cart as the woman stood there, just watching him. Once all of the bags were emptied from the metal platform at the base of the register, he went back to scanning and bagging the remaining groceries on the belt, trying to keep the smile on his face as though his cheeks did not feel sore and did not feel like cracking apart. Maybe he really did need his depression medications back because for the love of God this work was positively killing his mood.

Once the remaining items there had been scanned, bagged and packed away in the cart (all while the woman looked on with a disapproving, haughty look upon her wrinkled visage), Matthew turned to her, smiled, and told her that her total was just a little over three-hundred dollars.

Then her grandson - he deduced this from the fact that he referred to the old woman as 'nana' - who just so happened to be a strapping young man about four or five times his size in muscle, mass approached the counter. Finally, the smile slipped from the Canadian's face as he simply stared, the muscle beneath his eye jumping from the irritation he felt.

"Oh hey, you put all this in here yourself, Nana?" the young man said with a light smile.

Matthew just watched, hand pausing over the button as he sized up the situation.

"Damn right I did," the woman tittered pleasantly in that annoying way elderly folk tend to do, smiling about as sweetly as a smuggler with a batch of fresh Jamaican rum. "There's some strength left here in these arms."

Matthew gritted his teeth and swiped her debit card with a little more force than usual as the young man gave his grandmother an appraising look. Setting the card down firmly on the counter and staring straight ahead with a vapid look, he silently went over all the reasons in his head about why he was not supposed to hit a woman, let alone an elderly one.

When he caught her gaze and locked eyes with her, the older woman smirking darkly and practically sneering at him as she punched in the information for her payment, Matthew started to count backwards in his head - starting at one hundred - and doing the breathing trick McKnight had taught him.

Suddenly it did not seem so morally incorrect to give the old woman a slap, but considering his position as a cashier, a 'trained professional' and the fact that he was in a store surrounded by customers, he wasn't about to lose his job for giving an old bitch a well-practiced right-hook of his that had gotten him into shit _how _many times when he had been playing hockey on the youth team in Alberta?

More times than he could remember, that was for certain.

Handing the woman her receipt, he gave a rather strained smile as he immediately turned his attention to the next customer, not a word passing through his lips. There was no way he was going to tell someone like that to have a nice day. No goddamn way; not when he was cranky as it was - two hours overdue on a break, famished, exhausted and just plain angry with an individual he rarely got angry with, needless to say he was as cranky as hell itself.

Bagging the next individual's order with a slight (yet fully unintended) aggressiveness, he was thankful that the man only had three grocery items. Matt set the bag down, sighed, gave the total and accepted the money he was given with a bored sort of look upon his face.

It was no wonder people in customer service tended to get depressed or, eventually, go crazy; the people they dealt with on a regular basis were enough to drive one to drink in heavy quantities and very, _very_ frequently. Even though he had only been in the industry for two years, it really came to him as absolutely no wonder whatsoever.

Some half an hour later, and Matthew was already back to figuring out the suicide options - which were beginning to draw closer and closer to the big three hundred, and a lot of these ones included death by the insertion of various foods into various parts of one's body. They hadn't let him off cash yet as there was no one to relieve him, there were no signs of the place slowing down - and considering it was the midday 'rush hour', or so to speak, it would probably be another hour or more before the place cleared off - and, lo' and behold, the tax system had crash, thus meaning everything had to be calculated out by the cashier and placed on manually.

And for someone like the Canadian, with his background of 'excellence in math', if it was bad enough to be driving him to the point of gritting his teeth and muttering darkly beneath his breath, it had to be damn well bad for the girl on the register next to him considering she was almost in tears as she tried to work out the tax percentage on different household items as they were brought through. Feeling his frustration mounting as he steadily flicked the keys the supervisors had passed out to everyone as a tech guy made his way down from Manhattan to fix the system, Matthew sighed, trying to ignore the apologetic babbling coming from the young woman beside him.

All he wanted to say to her was get a bloody grip already, but he decided to hold his tongue and merely concentrate on putting through taxes and bottle deposits when the appropriate item went through the system.

Though it was not too bad, when he really thought about it - at least not for Matthew, considering he calculated the taxes for nearly every person in his apartment building - to deal with for the first little bit of it all, and in fact, although he would not say it aloud, he was almost enjoying himself, with all the number-crunching he had to do without a calculator at hand. He felt unusually alert, and somewhat refreshed. Math was something he had always enjoyed; just not the fact that he had to do all this while at work and it was busy as hell.

Maybe Gilbert _was_ right when he called him a mutant.

Waiting with another man's credit card in hand, he tapped his finger off of the counter as he watched the screen, the words 'request processing' blinking slowly. The longer they waited, the more impatient Matthew grew and the more anxious the customer grew.

"'m c'rt'n I h've m'ney on m' c'rd," he said sheepishly, voice nearly an incoherent mumble. "I p'id on it th' 'ther d'y, so the p'ym'nt should h've been pr'cessed by n'w."

Glancing at the man, the Canadian gave him a reassuring smile. "Oh, this happens sometimes," he said. "Occasionally the terminal gets a little slow." Lips dipped into a frown when he saw 'swipe timeout' appear on his screen and then he sighed. "I just need to swipe your card again," he murmured, watching as the man nodded his head. With an easy flick of the wrist, he dragged it down through the slot and waited all of another few seconds when he saw 'link system down' flash across the screen.

No.

Oh _hell_ no.

Oh hell fucking _no._

Groaning, Matthew ran a hand through his hair, gripping at curly blonde locks with a mild frustration. "Sir, I have a question," he asked. "Do you have another credit card you might be able to use, or maybe even a debit card?"

"I h've 'n Am'x c'rd, 'nd a Citib'nk d'bit c'rd," he said, taking his wallet back out and removing the two cards he had mentioned. Then he handed them across the counter to the twenty-one-year-old, who took them with a nod of thanks.

"Where you used credit first time around, I'll try and see if it works for your debit," Matthew said, half to himself really, flicking through the buttons and then swiping the debit card and waiting a moment. For a brief second, the flicker of hope formed in his chest when the card was not immediately denied by the system, but then it was denied after a brief pause, and he sighed heavily when 'link system down' came up on the screen once again.

"D'd 't w'rk?" the man asked, a small frown on his face.

"No," Matt said with a low hum. "Our debit system appears to be after crashing. Give me a moment, please." Turning away from the customer, he glanced over to the girl on the register beside him - the one that was fretting about all of the mental math she had to do.

"Hey, Gabby, is your debit machine working?" he called over to her, leaning slightly against the counter as the young woman turned around to face him.

"No," she said, voice thickly accented - she grew up in the Bronx, if he remembered correctly - and shrill sounding with stress. "It hasn't been for the past few minutes."

'_Shit,_' he thought, biting the inside of his cheek as his lips had already been chewed to the point that he had already drawn blood. Then, he turned when the girl on the register behind him, Natalia, spoke in that eerily flat voice of hers. She had dewy blue eyes, pale blonde hair that appeared almost bleached in colour, and frankly, she could be positively frightening at times. Frightening as in 'I should be in a horror film wielding a butcher knife asking my petrified elder brother to marry me in the creepiest voice known to man because I'm a freak like that'. (That was not to say that she did not have her moments of genuine niceness, though, to give her at least a tiny bit of credit). "Mine has stopped working, too, and so has Toris' debit."

Trying not to groan aloud, he ran a hand through his hair, and then glanced apologetically to the man he was serving. The broad-shouldered, pale-haired man with a terrifyingly stoic stare provided by sharp blue eyes, veiled slightly by his corrective lenses, merely offered him a small smile, as if to say 'that's all you can do, right?', to which Matt sighed with something akin to calmness at the man's lenity. Turning to the phone beside the printer, he picked it up and quickly dialled the manager's number - Roderich's, that is, considering the front end manager was an imbecile that flirted with all the male employees, and for some reason the young Canadian was especially prone to the attention of the woman from Belgium. Although he quite liked women, and loved their attention even more, he didn't want any while he was at work, thank you.

"_Roderich Edelstein here._"

"Ah, Mr. Edelstein, it's Matthew. Well, the-"

"_Please, there's no need for formalities, Matthew, all things considered_."

Matthew paused for a moment, feeling a little more than awkwardness settle in between them - considering he was talking to his boss who was dating his ex-boyfriend and there was at least a thirteen-year-gap between the college student and the business man, and here he was telling him to be casual when he was suddenly, for the first time in a long time, the odd one out and uncomfortably single although happy for the other, albeit somewhat concerned.

Casual. Uh-huh.

Yeah sure right on.

You can tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better.

('_Good luck there, asshole_,' the lamp would more than likely say.)

Clearing his throat, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had formed between them somewhat effectively, he sighed. "Very well," he murmured, glancing around hesitantly, as though someone was over-hearing their conversation (or maybe his thoughts - that would be positively horrifying). "The debit system has been down for about five minutes now. Credit cards, debit. Everything's gone. Even the cash system seems sort of shaky here; it takes a while for the money to go through, and it's coming up off by a few cents."

There was a heavy sigh from Roderich's end. "_There are several other stores throughout the city experiencing this problem right now,_" he said in a plaintive voice, and Matthew could picture the man massaging the bridge of his nose, glasses set down on his desk as he reclined in front of his laptop, with the security screens playing on various monitors. "_Debit, cash, tax systems. Everything has gone down just about. Goodness only knows by how much we will be out by the end of the day because of the incompetence of some of the cashiers down there and their distinct inability to multiply and subtract simple numbers._"

At this, the Canadian snickered. "Well that's beside the point," he said, feeling rather dark as he glanced over to the still-flustered Gabby. "So what shall we do about it?"

"_There's nothing you can do,_" Roderich said tiredly. "_Just tell customers that there is an ATM at their disposal down by customer service should they have no physical money on them._" Then, there was a pause and he heard papers rustling in the background. "_Matthew, what time did you come in this morning?_"

"For eight-thirty, Sir."

"_So I take it you get off at five, am I correct in assuming so_?"

"Indeed. Which is three hours away."

"_Have you had a break yet?_"

"No, I haven't; I've been on cash for three straight hours now, and I was stocking shelves for two before that, and no one has come down to relieve me for one because it's so busy."

"_Oh for the love of- Is Bella on cash?_"

"No, she's down by customer service." He glanced down along the front end and scowled. "Doing nothing."

"_I'll be down there in a moment,_" came the cold, icily firm voice from the other end of the phone, "_and I assure you that you will get your break._"

And then the line went dead, leaving Matthew staring at the receiver with a worried sort of look upon his pale, thin face, shadowed eyes widening a bit. "Oh, my."

Hanging up the phone with movements that were somewhat forced and mechanical, he set it down and then turned back to the man, rubbing the nape of his neck and pursing his lips. "I apologize for that," he said sheepishly. "But, our debit system is down, and probably will be for most of the evening; a lot of stores in the area are experiencing the same problem as us, according to the manager. Would you be able to pay cash, do you think?"

The customer, who had officially surpassed the title of 'patient' and had gone straight to 'saint', nodded, digging out his wallet and removing a wad of twenties. "Sh'uld be en'gh," he mumbled as the cashier took the money with what was no doubt relief flitting across his face as he counted out the bundle of money, entering it in the system and then sighing slightly as he had to mentally work out the change as it was no longer displaying on the screen, nor was it appearing on the receipt.

Glancing between the total, the amount he was given and what he had written down, Matthew nodded slightly and removed the change from his till, turning to the man and handing him his receipt with an apologetic smile. "I'm really, really sorry about that, Sir," he said as the money was taken from him.

"Th're's n'thing you c'n do 'bout it," the tall man said with a shrug of indifference, giving the cashier another one of his tiny smiles that barely even appeared on his narrow, blank face. "No s'nse 'n g'tting 'ngry w'th ya."

At this Matthew laughed lightly as he started scanning and bagging the next order, grinning at the customer that was putting his money back in his wallet, and his receipt down in one of his bags. "Now, if only _everyone_ thought like that," the Canadian chuckled with a smile, shaking his head lightly and ignoring how his wayward curl bounced from the slight movement. "Have a good day, Sir."

"Th'nks. You, too." And then he left, prompting Matthew to give a light sigh of dejection as it was not very often one ran into customers that had even _more_ patience than a saint.

Thankfully enough, the next few customers were aware of the technical error with the debit system, and actually had their money taken out and prepared for him when it got to the end of the order; it was not very often he dealt with a cooperative, sympathetic public. Understanding on occasion, but very rarely were the willing to help a little with what he had to do. It was nice for a change.

A hand on his shoulder, and Matthew turned around, pausing before he started the next order. Roderich stood there, frowning lightly. "Sign off the register and go for your break," the man instructed sternly, gesturing for his employee to get away and go upstairs to the staffroom.

Matthew spluttered. "B-But, Sir, you c-can't relieve me," he said faintly, cheeks flushing as he bit his lip, chewing on it harshly until he felt it pulse angrily beneath his teeth, the delicate skin burning from the mistreatment.

Roderich gave him a half-smile, tutting a little. "You needn't worry, I came down to send you on your break in the first place, considering someone isn't doing their job the way they should be." Accompanying his words was a cold, accusatory stare he directed towards an oblivious Bella, the woman still chatting amiably with a male customer, batting her long eyelashes and leaning forward in a way that flattered and almost enhanced the curvature of her breasts. The wry smirk turned into a dark scowl, and the man shook his head lightly, cracking his long, spindly fingers before setting about signing in with his own number. "Take half an hour, forty-five minutes, considering you won't have time for a second break."

Nodding, Matthew smiled tiredly. "Thanks," he said in a tiny voice, excusing himself from the lane and brushed past the other customers that were milling around the other registers as they were being served. He groaned lowly to himself, massaging his temples as he took somewhat staggering steps in the direction of the stairs that would lead him up to the staffroom, feeling his hips pop uncomfortably in the process along with his knees that had been locked in place for at least a good three hours now. They were sore and stiff, and he regarded the stairs before him as a sort of abysmal threat to his wellbeing.

Anyway, Roderich would call him out on being unprofessional should he crawl up over them instead of walking like a civilized human being.

Because there was nothing civilized nor professional about crawling up over the stairs like the zombie he felt like.

Hand on the rail, leaning slightly against the wall as he yawned until tears popped into the corners of his eyes, the Canadian did not know how he managed to get up to the staffroom, or at least before his break was over.

Feet dragging behind him as he entered the room, black sneakers scuffing the floor as he watched the tiles he treaded across with a sort of dull interest, he glanced up and then bit his lip; Gilbert was in there already, slumped at the table with his Blackberry in hand, lazily texting either his brother or Antonio.

Without a word to the German-American, Matthew made his way over to the 'fridge and pulled from it his lunch bag, holding it tightly as he wandered over to the tables, sitting down a little way away from the student, blatantly ignoring the way the other stared at him, eyes cold and sharp as he let his gaze linger on his friend.

So they remained silent for the first little while of Matthew being up in the staffroom, wordlessly taking dainty nibbles from his sandwich, eyes flickering across the pages of the novel he had immersed himself in for the time being, dead set on tuning out everything around him - and everyone. The only other sound was the steady clicking of buttons as the other texted whoever it was he was texting.

Finally, it seemed the silence had become too much for a certain white-blonde male.

"I cannot believe you," Gilbert said icily, setting his phone down on the surface of the table, leaning back in his chair and glaring over at the other with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

As calm as ever, Matthew placed his bookmark back into his novel and turned his gaze upwards and let it settle upon the other. He arched an eyebrow, expression one of indifference as he rested back, hands folded politely upon the table. "Oh?"

Gilbert practically growled at his ex-boyfriend's nonchalance. "Don't fucking 'oh' _me_, Matthew," he snapped, eyes narrowing a fraction more.

At this, Matthew lost his calm expression, his own eyes narrowing darkly and the corners of his mouth tightening dangerously. "Then what is it you cannot believe?"

"Alfred Jones, huh?" he asked, looking positively feral as he glared over at the other. "Alfred fucking Jones. That's precious, Birdie. Real fucking precious, but I'm kind of wondering when you're going to wake up and realize that you're going to get into shit with someone like that."

"You're implicating that we're _together_, Gilbert," Matthew hissed, feeling his cheeks flush hotly. "We're _friends_, and that's _it_."

His friend snorted coldly, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Could have fooled me, considering just how _snug _the two of you were the other day in Starbucks," he spat, picking his phone back up, glancing at the message on the screen and then setting it back down without writing up a reply. "Since when do you not tell me anything?"

"And since when do _you _not tell _me_ anything?" Matthew fired back, a little louder than he intended. But the words had their desired effect: the pale-skinned man bit his lip and glanced down, mouth opening and closing several times before he huffed, running a hand through his hair.

"Fuck, Birdie," he groaned, rubbing his face and leaning forward, using his elbows to brace himself as he stared at the brown surface. His expression was mostly shielded from view, and Matthew knew very well that the other's eyes were shut with frustration. "Forgive me for feeling a slight bit of concern for my friend; I know it's terribly unawesome of me, but well shit happens. It's just that I party on the same strip as he does, and the man's a slut; he'll screw around with anything with nice legs and a set of tits, and it's a different chick every time."

"And in case you don't recall, I was a tad bit of a whore the last going off in high school as well," he replied smoothly, smirking slightly at the memory. How many people had he slept with? Or the better question was who hadn't he slept with?

"Didn't you sleep with the art teacher when you were in grade twelve?" Gilbert asked with a wry smirk, shaking his head lightly.

"Hey, man, he was only twenty-four," Matthew said, holding up his hands as though trying to defend himself. "And he was from the Netherlands. Lars Van der Sloot. We got stoned together, sketched and had sex. There was no way in _hell _I was turning that down. Not to mention he was _amazing _in bed. I guess it might be why I passed the class with 110%."

"Or maybe it's because you have talent and that was also the same year you defaced the high school with that epic mural of yours that got your suspended for ages," Gilbert groaned, rubbing his face, massaging his temples. "Didn't you also sleep with the cheerleading team, too?"

"Including the male cheerleader, yes. Yes I did."

Gilbert let his head hit the table with a hard thump. "Fucking slut."

"That's no way to talk about your mother; she gave life to you, you ungrateful whelp."

The man lifted his head and stared at Matthew for a long moment, and then he sighed, turning his gaze forward. "I just don't want to see him hurt you, alright?" he said quietly, massaging the bridge of his nose. From where he was seated, he could see that Gil was chewing on the inside of his cheek. "If he hurts you, I'll break his balls with one of my dad's guns. And no, not thunder or lightning, I mean the bottom of his AK-47."

"We're only _friends_," he reiterated flatly. "That's it, and that's all it will be."

Gilbert shook his head lightly, his face falling as he turned his head away altogether. "I saw the way you looked at him," he said, voice barely audible. "I haven't seen you look at anyone like that in a long time. Not…" he swallowed thickly, flexing his hand anxiously, "not since we dated."

For a long time Matthew said nothing, slumping down a little as the German-American's words registered with him. He thought about this so-called look he gave Alfred, realizing with a forming nausea that he was right; then he considered the way he sometimes felt on occasion when he was around Alfred. Warm, relaxed, content; all the time, even when they bickered - _especially_ when they bickered, now that he thought about it - he just felt downright _happy. _It was the same way he felt around Gilbert when they had been a couple. Sure he felt the same way around his friend now even if they weren't together in that sense, not anymore, but this … this was different. This was the exact same happiness, no questions asked.

_**Fuck.**_

"No," he said quietly, shaking his head, eyes widening a fraction with dismay. Curly blonde hair bobbed and swayed from the movement. "No, no, _no_."

"Apparently so," Gilbert said quietly.

"I've only known him for two _months _though," Matthew whined, his voice cracking, covering his face as he took a shaky breath. "That's not enough time to decide whether or no-"

"That's all it takes, Birdie," he interrupted lowly, sliding over to sit in front of the petit Canuck, removing his hands from his face and replacing them with his own. Matthew sighed against Gilbert's touch, leaning into it and letting his eyes flutter shut; the man's hands were cool and dry, calloused. Lips that were just as dry and soft brushed against his forehead in a chaste, warm sort of kiss. "Two months is all it takes sometimes."

"…Am I interrupting something?" was the voice that came from the door, sounding somewhat strained, uneasy.

Matthew wanted to jerk away, probably would have if he had been thinking clearly, but his thoughts were too clouded, emotions too jumbled and all over the place for him to really react in any sort of way. The man holding his cheeks, running his thumb along a delicate cheekbone, looked calmly over to the door and gave Roderich a crooked smile.

"No, not really," he said softly, running his thumb gently along Matt's jaw before leaning back in his seat, watching the other with a sad look. "Poor little thing here is having an emotional crisis with his … emotions."

"Ah, I see," Roderich said with a tiny smile, shutting the door to the staffroom and coming over and sitting beside the two, watching them with a cautious sort of air. "Is there anything I might be able to help with, Matthew?"

"No," Matthew groaned, dragging out the word in a pained-sounding voice before letting his head collide with the hard, wooden surface of the table, folding his hands over the back of his neck before he started slamming his forehead repeatedly against it.

A hand on the top of his head stopped the movement, and he felt his head being forced up by his former boyfriend. "You'll rupture whatever brain cells you have left, bro," Gilbert said firmly. "Y'know, that last lil' modicum of intelligence that you haven't smoked away."

Batting the offending hand away, Matthew set his head back down, but rested his cheek upon the cool wood instead of the preferred head-bashing he really wanted to engage in. "I could say the same thing about you and then some," he muttered blackly. "Considering you and Mary are closer than what we are."

"Well, at least I didn't do a strip-tease to Bonnie Tyler for a joint," Gilbert pointed out smoothly. The two of them were totally oblivious to the fact that Roderich was holding his face in his hands, shaking his head slowly and trying desperately to ignore the two men he was sharing oxygen with (and probably catching stupid from).

"Fuck you, man," Matt retaliated, still not budging from his spot. "I was already piss-loaded at the time, and frankly, it was either her or Culture Club, and there was no fucking way I was going Boy George flaming gay-ass tranny bitch for a draw, alright? No goddamn motherfucking way was that happening."

By now, Roderich was probably denying the fact that the two even existed.

Shaking his head ruefully, still smirking, Gilbert sighed. "But seriously, Birdie," he said in a low voice, sounding far more serious than moments before. "Prudence is all I'm suggesting. And so help me Jesus he'll need a new dick if he does _anything,_ got it?"

Matthew simply whined and covered his face.

"What's wrong?" Roderich asked, a note of concern lying in the undertones of his voice.

"He's deep in the Closet of Amorous Denial," the German-American said, voice bland. "Like, he might as well be in Narnia right now, fucking trolls and faeries, or whatever it is they do there."

Another whine followed his statement, as well as several viciously muttered curses.

"Now now, enough with the passive-aggressive behaviour, Matthew Williams, because no one wants to hear that shit."

In response, Gilbert received an upturned finger and another smattering of derogatory terms, most of which were directed to one's mother and their dog, specifically involving rather carnal (and very inappropriate, and illegal) acts of nature.

For some time after that, the three men sat in silence, the Canadian with his forehead pressed firmly against the table, hands folded tightly in his lap as he wrung them steadily, chewing hard upon his lower lip. Thoughts were flying through his head at a rapid, unsettling pace, and frankly the young man would kill to have a good, strong sedative. But that would be to no avail; for who would give him something to knock him out cold, considering it would be on such short notice?

Then again, it was New York after all. He could probably go out in the warehouse and get a hit of some nameless substance.

Seriously though; how had he managed to fuck up like this? He hadn't even wanted to become friends with the man in the first place, and now here it was, out in the open: he … he _liked _the Yankee fucker. Liked his arrogance, his dry, caustic wit; liked his inane conversations; his ability to laugh at everyone and everything, himself included; he adored his passion for helping others despite being completely inept when it came to helping himself; liked how he was able to tell the truth no matter how hurtful it might have been, and he most certainly loved the adventurous streak he had that was the length of the Mississippi River.

A mental jolt passed through his body at the use of the word 'love' - something he had not used, or applied, to anyone or anything in a long time - and he sunk down further in the chair.

He had just applied the word 'love' and 'adored' to Alfred F. Jones when he used to apply words such as 'floppy dickhead', 'pretentious' and 'cunt nugget'.

What was the world coming to, precisely?

And why the fuck was _he_ being dragged along for the ride?

Finally lifting his head up off of the table when the sound of a chair scraping across tile roused him, Matthew massaged at his temples and huffed, eyes downcast, sniffling a little as he chewed his lower lip.

"Hey, it's not the end of the world," Gilbert said gently, tousling his curls and smiling down softly at him, pale eyes gentle. "Don't be so hard on yourself, alright Birdie?"

Matthew mumbled an agreement before propping his cheek in his palm, watching as the other slipped his phone into his back pocket as he made to stand, hauling his sweater back on while he made his way to the staffroom door.

"Excuse me, but you do recall that there is a rule in place that forbids you from having your phone on your person while at work, am I correct?" Roderich demanded smoothly, arching a delicate brown eyebrow. Eyes that were almost violet in colour were smirking even when his lips were not.

Stopping and turning around, Gilbert floundered for a moment, scowling darkly. "Aw, c'mon Roddy," he said with a weak smile. "Can't you just make one teensy little exception to the rule, y'know, considering?"

"Not a chance," Roderich said smoothly, holding out his hand to take the phone. "You may be my lover, but here you're still my employee, whether you like it or not. Now fork it over, Beilschmidt."

Grumbling blackly beneath his breath, and in German nonetheless, he hauled the Blackberry out of his pocket and stomped over, slamming the phone down on the table before pivoting sharply on his heel and storming out of the break room, leaving two snickering men behind him.

Picking up the phone and scanning it, Roderich started pressing some of the buttons, eyes intent and a half-smile quirking the corner of his mouth upwards. Deft fingers skimmed across the buttons with a practiced ease, and then when he finished, he slipped the phone down into the front pocket of his dress shirt. Then the man sent Matthew a look that held a slight concern to it, and immediately the Canadian knew what it was about.

The younger man held up his hands. "You have nothing to worry about from me; I haven't been interested in him since high school," he said softly. "That's a guarantee."

"You haven't the slightest about how much of a relief that comes as." Slowly, Roderich exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the table. "I knew he was hung up on your when he made the first move, or so to speak," he said thoughtfully. "But I still said yes, anyway; at first it was just an impulse to agree - I've never been with a man before, ever, and frankly, after the divorce I went through with my wife four years ago, I don't know if I ever want to bed another woman for as long as I live. So, yes, it was a bit of an impluse that lead me to say yes. But then I realized that he can be quite charming, in a blundering, fumbling sort of way. Sort of like a giant puppy that has paws quite too big for it."

Laughter spilled out of the Canadian and he nodded. "Yeah, that sounds like Gil, alright," he chuckled, smiling.

His manager had a smile on his face as well, and the expression he wore was an unusually fond one. "He can be such an imbecile at times. And damn well arrogant, too. But he's genuine, and rather humorous," he said mildly, running his thumb down along his jaw with a pensive look to the ceiling. "I can see why you two would have attracted one another." The smile he gave Matthew was a crooked one, but there was no illmeaning behind it.

Another chuckle left the Canadian and he shrugged, cocking his head. "We dated for almost two years, and the only reason we broke up was because he got accepted and went to Penn State for a while," he murmured. "And he said I was too young - never mind him - to deal with a long-distance relationship. But it was cute; he'd ask me for permission when it came to dating other people, and I kind of would, as well." He snuffed lightly through his nose, smiling at the memory, scratching at the nape of his neck. "And we may or may not have screwed around for a while last year, once we realized we both worked at the exact same place after not having spoken for two years. But then when I realized he still liked me, I had to say no; I didn't want to hurt him - that would have been horrible and just despicable of me. Really."

"You've dealt with things that have made you wise beyond your years, Matthew," he commented softly after a relaxed silence, staring at the artist. He was smiling a little. "And for that, I have quite the amount of respect for you."

Not expecting the compliment, or one that was of such a magnitude, Matthew stuttered uselessly, fumbling for something to say as he felt his skin grow heated. When he figured that coherent speech was officially beyond his grasp, he simply chose to bite his lip and look down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap. He couldn't even bring himself to say thank you.

Patting the flushed Canadian on the shoulder, his manager stood and stretched. "You can go back down to grocery when you come back from your break," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I put Bella on cash, so you needn't worry. Enjoy the rest of your break, Mr. Williams."

And so Matthew was sat there alone once more, face still burning with a pleased embarrassment as he still tried to process what exactly it was that had inspiried the impromptu compliment from his friend's boyfriend. Ten minutes passed, and when he still couldn't figure it out, the young man simply decided to give up altogether. No sense in dwelling was his personal belief, and it worked best when applied to everything - it was almost like maple syrup, ketchup and Cheese Whiz in that sense.

Which, he reminded himself, was what he had been in the process of stocking the shelves with before he had gotten called to the front end to open up a register.

Standing with a yawn and stretching languidly, the Canadian sighed as he put his lunch away, stuffing his water bottle into the container he had taken with him and pushing it all back into the 'fridge before leaving the break room, ruffling his hair slightly with his spindly fingers before trotting back down over the flight of stairs. Turning his eyes away and walking past the cash office as to avoid making eye contact with Bella - as the woman was probably fuming at being put on cash by Mr. Edelstein - he skirted down that way and turned down one of the aisles, taking the store phone from his back pocket and handing it to the grocery manager with an apologetic smile.

"Ah," he said, smirking a little. "So you were the one that kidnapped the phone and turned it off. I was thinking it might have been Gilbert or Mathias, but nope. It was you. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?"

Matthew laughed, heading over to the pile of Cheese Whiz-filled boxes that he had left earlier on in the day. "That's usually how it works, Sir."

Turning to the boxes when the other left him, he removed the box cutter from his back pocket and started slicing through the cardboard, removing the bottles from the case and sticking them on the shelves, rotating the older stock to bring it out front and placing the newer towards the back (something Gilbert was too lazy to do, so half of the time he had to go and check through the older man's work to make sure it was done properly so that he didn't get in shit for doing a sloppy job, as per usual). Glancing to the pile of boxes, he counted them and then smiled when he realized that, with the amount of product there, it would probably take him the rest of the afternoon to put out all the bottles, meaning he wouldn't have to start doing something else and then be kept from finishing it because he had to go home - just an example of another one of his numerous pet peeves.

Unsure of how much time had passed, when he got to the end of the boxes, the Canadian took a step back and stretched, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, flexing his hands to get the stiffness out of them. When he turned, he jumped and yelped, not expecting to see anyone stood there. And most certainly not expecting to see Alfred there, at least not yet; while the man had promised to pick him up, he figured the American would have just waited outside in one of his environment-slaughtering babies.

"Hey," he said with a grin, eyes bright behind his glasses; he was obviously gloating about nearly scaring the daylights out of the Canadian.

"Fuck you," Matthew muttered venomously, bending back down and hefting up the final box of Cheese Whiz and setting it down on the top of his cart, hauling the box cutter out and slicing the flaps open. "That's how you give people heart attacks and emotional traumatisation, dickface."

Alfred laughed outright, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit; he must have just come straight from the court house. Letting his eyes roam over the other for a brief moment, Matthew couldn't help but notice how well the suit sat on his body, how trim he was. Face warming at the traitorous thoughts, he stabbed the box once for good measure and started to stock the shelves once more, focusing desperately on his task and not how good his friend looked in an Armani suit.

Gilbert was right.

Oh God damn it all to hell.

"Why's there so much Cheese Whiz?" Alfred asked plaintively. If he turned around, the grocery clerk knew the man would be rocking back and forth upon his heels like a little boy would be while trying to decide what candy he wanted his grandmother to buy him at the sweet's shop.

"It's going on sale tomorrow," Matthew said distractedly, straightening out the older bottles, pushing them to the side as he slipped the newer ones onto the metal shelving. "Buy one, get one free. Worst sale on the face of the earth, and if they put me on cash, I'm going to smack a bitch. So you better be prepared for me to smack you at least once this week, maybe twice."

"Well that hurt."

"You're damn right it will."

Laughing and shaking his head, Alfred sighed. "I'm not just anyone's bitch, just so you know," he scolded lightly, unable to help but let the smirk he felt surfacing stay on his lips.

"You're _my _bitch, that much is for certain," Matthew retaliated somewhat smugly. And when Alfred spluttered, but did not deny it, he decided that it was true and he smiled softly to himself, glad that the other could not see the look on his face. Then, a thought came to mind. "Hey, I want to pick up some groceries. Would you mind terribly? You can stay for dinner if you like; I was planning on cooking some pasta and making my own sauce to go with it." Now he turned around to get a look at the other, and he ducked his head upon seeing the delighted look upon his face.

"I wouldn't mind at all!" Alfred said in that bright voice of his, his infernally contagious happiness present in all its glory.

It was at that precise moment that Gilbert walked past them, smirking knowingly to himself. "Domestic already," he said, whistling cheerfully and quickening his step when Matthew threatened to throw a bottle of Cheese Whiz at his skull.

And Alfred remained stood there, wearing a blissfully oblivious smile and wondering if he sound be worried for his personal safety.

* * *

Writing Sweden-mumble kind of killed me. Just throwing that out there. And yes, I think Matthew would have been a wee bit of a whore, but I just blame it on the fact that he's part French. And yes, the art teacher he screwed around with was The Netherlands, because Netherlands/Canada is one of my other favourite pairings.

And now we finally have some progress from Matthew's side of things! Yay! Fff it's damn well about time. /:

Thanks so much for all the reviews you guys, seriously. I can't believe this thing has gotten over 200 reviews. And here I was, thinking this idea was stupid when I originally started writing. :'D

-SUFFOCATES YOU ALL WITH LOVE-


	16. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN.**

It was finally April, and it was noticeable in every way possible. The wind was warm and despite the freed-up traffic of the city, there was a sweet smell in the air; fresh, filled with new life. No snow remained to tell of the winter past, and the trees were already in something akin to full bloom. Central park was alive, no longer the barren stretch of land covered in bare, iced-over trees, slushy paths and a dim gray colour that left everything around them dreary, washed-out like a colourful canvas that had been exposed to the elements for too long. The world was green and fresh again, and even at three in the morning it was easy to tell.

Sitting on the fire escape, one leg dangling down over the side and his back pressed to the railings, Matthew hummed softly to himself. He was tired, slowly beginning to nod off as he worked, so a breath of morning air had been required to keep him from out-right passing out cold in the middle of his so-called duties. With a quest to stay awake in mind, he had left the building for the time being, keeping a watch on the laneway below before turning to shut his eyes and let his mind wander, a little more unhinged than usual. A shiver passed through his body; the air outside was cool, but not cool enough for him to require a jacket despite the late hour. Or earliness.

Was three in the morning late or early?

Matthew opened his eyes as he considered this, blinking dazedly, a finger going to his lower lip and plucking at the dry skin there. It could be either really, when one looked at it; it all depended on the way an individual viewed it, through what sort of eyes they saw the hour with. Someone just getting off of work at three would consider it late, having been slaving out for the waning economy as though it was worth something to make a measly minimum wage pay. However, someone with a light sleeping pattern waking up around that hour would consider it too early to be up; who would want to get out of bed after having only slept so many hours? Before the sun was even considering getting up? No one wanted to crawl out of bed at that unholy hour, especially when the sun hadn't already. No goddamn way. So late could be early, and early could be late, all depending on the eyes that viewed the situation.

Then he grumbled, running his hands through his hair as he rotated his body around so that he was sat with his legs dangling out through the rungs of the fencing around the bakery's fire escape. Too much thinking for having been awake for almost forty-eight hours. Far too much; he had been living off coffee and watermelon candies, using the sudden burst of sugar every ten minutes or so to keep him from nodding off, but even now it was beginning to fail him.

Sudden noise from beneath where he was sat brought him to a full alertness and he tensed, eyes going wide as he peered down over the railing. It was complete and utter darkness down there, with the only source of illumination being towards the end of the alley where a street lamp was situated.

Below him the alley was vacant, save for the occasional rustling of cardboard or paper as the light breeze lifted it and carried it along the dry pavement, the edges scraping along the blacktop as it drifted aimlessly; that was what he had heard, and in his exhaustion-driven paranoia, he thought it was a person creeping around. Probably out to murder him with a hatchet or something, and then drag off his body and stuff it in a barrel before dumping it off in the bay where it would never, _ever_ be found. Ever again.

Back to the original, safer train of thought. Three in the morning was early, he decided, because no one said three at night; that just did not make a lick of sense, while three in the morning did. And anything before eight, in his opinion, was early. So three in the morning was early, not late.

Case closed, let's go for a beer.

With a sigh the Canadian flopped back onto the cold metal, staring up at the cloud-covered sky with a bored look upon his face and with his arms tucked behind his head. There was still more than enough time for him to get that last little bit of cleaning finished. This was his favourite thing about working the nightshift at the bakery; the fact that he could spend half of it just lazing around and doing nothing because, really, it would only take him six or seven hours to scrub all three floors of the building down - the bakery equipment was taken care of primarily by the actual bakers as they had the proper training in handling the giant mixers and ovens, and while he was no equipment technician, all he had to do was make sure that it was still in proper working order because he had some 'experience' with baking, thanks to being around his cousin so much when he was younger (experience being a five-year-old and standing on the chair to watch his French cousin bake cupcakes, but all the same. It was 'experience'). That task in itself only took an hour to perform, while scrubbing the floors, washing down the walls and sanitizing all the open-air surfaces took another five or six.

And of course, it was a twelve hour shift that he worked, this giving him another five or six hours to just loaf around, reading or listening to music, sketching and even going as far as sleeping sometimes. He liked to refrain from sleeping, based on the fact that he felt terribly uncomfortable as it was being in the large, old building by himself; there were times when he swore he heard other people walking around throughout the place, heavy footsteps coming from the fourth floor - where all the old equipment was stored, and a place he never ventured before the sun came up. The thought of running into someone up there - alive or a spectre - was not fanciful to him, so Matt avoided it as though it were carrying the plague. Otherwise, the nights he worked were always uneventful, and in case they became eventful, he had the phone number of every emergency service in New York at his disposal, or his boss would answer to his pleas for help if need be. And if all else failed and the shit hit the fan before there was anyone around that could save his sorry ass, he was to go and get the shotgun that was stored in the man's office on the main floor.

'Cause something like that is what every bakery needs: a paranoid owner from the Bronx that keeps a fully-loaded, sawn-off double barrel Winchester shotgun hitched up on pegs beneath his desk, with a fully loaded Magnum in the third drawer to the right.

At least it made him feel the slightest bit safer while working, knowing full well that he just had to whip out the (giant) set of keys and find the right one (despite the fact that there had to be at least thirty on the ring) and then _BUST DOWN THE DAMN DOOR_, grab the shotgun and gallivant about with it held in his hands like some hyperactive pre-teen on an energy drink high.

Yup. Lots of safe there to go around for the kids and the whole damn family.

Safer than a war zone in Afghanistan.

(They recommend the hills for playing an epic game of hide-and-seek. Really, they do.)

Glancing about before forcing himself back up into a sitting position, Matthew shook out his hair and stretched, removing his cell phone from his pocket to take a glance at the time - upon Alfred's steady insistence for a whole month, all of his consistent bitching and whining and moaning, he had purchased the goddamn thing simply for the sake of shutting him up. He stood with a stretch, rolling his arms back, popping his shoulders slightly as he rubbed the nape of his neck. It was almost four in the morning, and all he had left to clean was the third floor, and then he just had to wait until eleven before he was allowed to clock out; it did not matter if he finished early or not, he was not allowed to leave before eleven on Saturday morning because that was when the first baker got in for the day; under no circumstances was he supposed to leave the place unoccupied or something nonsensical and awesome like that.

Fuck that shit; he just wanted to go home, call Al and talk to him for a bit and then curl up in bed to sleep for the rest of the afternoon.

The plan was flawless, and the execution of it would be utter perfection, but not if he couldn't go home early enough to do so.

(Although the Bastard got a kick out of Matthew when he was semi-delusional with exhaustion, and the Canadian damn well knew this but simply chose to humour the other man. Not because he liked making him happy. Hell no. Just because he thought it was kind of funny how it gave the lawyer something to laugh at every Saturday morning when he was mildly hung-over from partying the night before. It had nothing to do with the fact that he liked to make him happy.)

With a lowly muttered curse, a light yawn and then stretching once more, he slipped silently back into the bakery, shutting the door tightly behind him and then locking it before he re-set the alarm system.

**ANOTHER PERK TO THIS PARTICULAR JOB:  
**_Because even though he was only a lowly maintenance lad, for some odd reason he  
was also worthy of knowing every single security code the building had to its name. _

Oh, and he also knew the combination codes to the safes (all of four of them), because he was the one that gave the bank the company's money when they showed up in their armoured car at eight am every Saturday morning - another reason why he couldn't leave early.

He really didn't understand why his boss was so trusting, considering he was after having so many problems when it came to the other people he had hired for the Friday night shift, but it wasn't something he was going to fuck up on any time soon; trust, to him, was a pivotal element in a relationship, whether it was of a professional sort - such as the one he had with his boss at the bakery, where there was an obvious amount of trust - or whether it was of the casual, affable kind - like what he had with Alfred. And then there was trust of the romantic kind, something he sort of wished he had with Alfred. Matthew grimaced; even mentally admitting to something like that (despite having officially acknowledged it around the end of January that yes, Houston, there was a problem and that the problem was that there were genuine feelings for the American festering in him), it still made the young man squirm with a mild discomfort and a sort of giddiness. The emotions were all intertwined like the strands on a web, clinging together with a sticky residue and leaving one silken piece wrapped in amongst and stuck to the other so that one was indiscernible to the other by the end of it all. And that, in short, was how he felt about Alfred.

Beside deeply affectionate towards and with this high school-girl sort of longing nonetheless.

But the man was about as straight as they came. He saw how he would occasionally eye women when they were out, winking at female cashier or clerks, flirting with them with a practiced ease. No matter how many times he tried to demean himself and the increasingly affectionate thoughts he had towards the other, Matthew just couldn't help but like the man more and more every time they were together. Which was more and more often, to compensate for the increase in interest.

In fact, since the end of February, they hung out at least four times a week, talked on the phone every second night, and half of the time all they did together was play videogames, watch movies, trash-talk politics and debate their opinions about different militaries, peace movements, why the were or were not successful; whatever came to mind, they talked about it with absolutely no censoring of their thoughts.

Because secretly, even Alfred F. Jones was a hippie and he did not stand for war.

And if anyone ever found that out, the lawyer promised that he would give the artist a swirl-y he would never, ever forget.

Adjusting the hem of his t-shirt, the Canadian gave another lengthy stretch, thin hands sliding into his back pockets as he wandered along the main corridor of the third floor. This was the space that was used primarily for decorating the cakes that were sold - the majority were wedding cakes, a lot of them done quite beautifully, as the bakers that worked there had all graduated from a culinary school just outside of Manhattan.

However, they were all slobs and left everything just lying around and caked in icing because they were all a bunch of lazy sods that needed Mommy to clean up after them!

Matthew Williams was _not _their mother, under any circumstances.

Grumbling darkly beneath his breath as he picked up a wash cloth that had been soaked in industrial bleach, he slapped it down on one of the counters and started to scrub, pausing only once when he realized he had forgotten to put on a pair of rubber gloves to keep his hands from going raw. He was cleaning with a straight bleach formula with nothing mixed in. Not even water. Just pure industrial bleach. He cringed at the dull burn on his pale skin, wiped the liquid from his pants onto the backs of his jeans - a ratty pair he wore specifically for this reason - and looked to his hands. Sure he had only put them into the bleach four or five times tops, they were already scarlet from the corrosive liquid. Another grimace and he hauled the rubber gloves on, rolling the sleeves of his sweater up further as he dipped the cloth back into the corrosive solution.

Setting the cloth back down on the surface, he hummed softly to himself as he scrubbed in small, tight circles, arm tensing as he forcefully washed down the wood to get all the grit and grime off of it. A look of disdain crossed Matthew's face as he shook his head. Did they go all week before waiting for him to come and clean the equipment? He swept his gaze across the table, down to the pile of cake icing guns and decals and then groaned aloud at the state they were all in. Covered in the sweet butter icing, probably with about two inches of the stuff lining the outside and maybe more still crusting the inside. In fact, it looked like there were some little bugs crawling around the inside of the tubes as well …

He let out a pathetic whine.

Okay, those bugs were _far _from little.

"Are you _serious_!" Matthew practically roared, slamming his hand down hard on the table, along with the gloves and cloth. "That is so. Fucking. _**DISGUSTING**_**.**"

Storming over to the mess of decorating equipment on the far end of the table, the Canadian peered at what was there with a look on his face that was a melange of rage, disgust and severe disappointment. Indeed, there were bugs crawling in and around the crusting icing. But, the worst part of it was that they were not just any bugs, but they were _the _bugs.

The bug of New York. The bug that was everywhere, and even when you didn't see it, _you knew those little fuckers were there. _Crawling, sitting waiting for the proper moment to strike terror, nausea and disgust into the hearts of all, and to put money into the pockets of your local exterminator.

The New York cockroach.

"Fucking _Christ,_" Matthew retched, backing away and covering his face, momentarily enjoying the strong smell of bleach coating his hands as it distracted him from the problem on the table.

But upon hearing a skittering across the floor, he went rigid and lowered his hands from his face, immediately realizing that there was a whole new _problem_ for him to deal with.

Slowly turning his eyes to the direction of the noise, all the colour drained from his face, his stomach turned over and threatened to rebel, and then he let out an ear-piercing screech, flinging himself up onto the table to stand as he tried his best not to look at the _sewer rat _perched calmly in the middle of the floor. The creature shot Matthew a calculating look before it actually _snarled _at him, eliciting a litany of curses and terrified warbles from the young man.

"Oh God, oh shit, oh fucking fucking fuckity fuck on crackers with cheese," he whined, squirming and jumping a little as he fisted the material of his shirt as he watched it crawl about before settling in one spot to nibble on some cake that had fallen to the floor. No wonder the place was attracting the little monsters; they couldn't even sweep up the extra cake crumbs that fell to the floor when they were cutting up pieces of cake for decorating. The place was probably infested by now and for all he knew they might have been staging an October Revolution - this was just his first sighting, and more than likely, only warning.

There was one part of his job description that he had yet to have to fulfill: the slaying of the other beast of New York, the Almighty Sewer Rat of Doom.

There was no fucking way he was getting near that thing, but he had to kill it. There was no ifs, ands or buts about it. He had to kill the little monster. But he _couldn't_. He could not bring himself to get down from the table to kill the little (understatement of the century, of course) rat sat there on the floor, staring up at him in all its disgusting glory and openly mocking him with those tiny, beady black little eyes.

The rat moved, his long tail twitched and curled, and Matthew let out another screech, picking a cutting knife up off the table and launching it at the rodent. The metal hit the floor with a sharp clatter that sounded violent against his ear drums, but the creature didn't even flinch - just continued to stare.

He paused for a moment, hands fisted into the material of his shirt, eyes filling with tears of frustration as the little cretin continued to nibble away calmly on the cake as though he had not a care in the world. Actually, the thing probably didn't give two sweet shits as it was and was really internally gloating about how he had this scrawny dude scared shitless but just being there. But he had to kill it; there was no let it go free option, his boss had told him. He had to outright kill the little fuckers when he saw them.

He couldn't do it, but he knew someone who could.

Eyes not once leaving the beast before him, one hand slid into his pocket and from it he removed his cell phone, punching the second number on speed-dial (the first being work) and pressing the phone to his ear, praying to God that he would pick up and come to his rescue.

"…_Wh'd'fuck 'sis?_"

"A-Alfred?" he practically squeaked, feeling his face flush with humiliation. "S-sorry to w-wake you up, b-but uh, Ineedhelp."

"_Mmm, h'ng on a sec._" There was shuffling in the background and he heard Alfred groan; the man was probably getting out of bed. Matthew bit his lower lip, feeling guilt nagging at him as he squirmed slightly, still staring at the rat despite how putrid the little fucker was. It peered back at him an- Oh Christ, was that a _smirk _on its face? Bastard be damned, the rat could smirk. "_What's the problem, Mattie?_"

"There's a rat in the bakery and I need you to kill it oh please say you will, Al, please please please _please,_" he practically wailed, trying to ignore the tears that were filling his eyes.

"_I know I'm a hero and all (albeit a still semi-inebriated hero) but Mattie, seriously? You can't kill it yourself?_"

Matthew made a pathetic noise in the back of his throat. "_Please_, Al," he whimpered. "I'm afraid of them, okay? I-I understand if you don't want to bu-"

Jones sighed. "_I'll be there in ten minutes. Is the back door unlocked and unarmed?_"

A sense of elation swelled in the Canadian's chest. "I'm up on the third floor," he croaked out, swallowing thickly against the burning sensation in his throat. "Thanks Al."

"_No problem,_" Alfred sighed again. "_I'll be there in a bit; just hold tight._"

And true to his word, ten minutes later Matthew heard a car pull up outside the bakery, and only a few minutes after that, Alfred came in through the door, holding a metal shovel in his hand and looking worse for the wear. His blonde hair was stuck off in messy tufts, his cows lick was more prominent than usual and he was still half asleep - or drunk, possibly, as it was a Saturday morning at four o'clock after a Friday night of excessive drinking. And he was still in his pyjama pants, the red and black plaid slung low on his narrow hips, and a black tank top was hung loose on his body, much like his black zip-up sweater.

Offering the petrified Canadian a warm, soothing smile, Alfred approached him, shovel slung across his shoulders. "Where's the little fucker?" he asked with a light smirk, glancing around. The beast was nowhere to be seen, but he was still perched on the table, huddled there looking positively beside his self with despair.

Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but had to swallow several times before any noise would come out. Flushing, he tugged anxiously on a lock of his hair. "It's after going out into the next room," he practically whispered once he finally found his voice once more, knees tugged to his chest; he had sat down now on the table's surface instead of standing. While he didn't think the table would crack beneath his weight - sure he had put on at least fifteen pounds, maybe twenty since February, since he had given up taking the Zoloft, but that was not nearly enough for his body to crush a table.

Giving the other a nod, he gently squeezed Matthew's knee in a consoling manner. "A'ight," he said. "And where do you want me to dump the body to?"

"I-I'll go and unarm the door just down over there," he said softly, finally sliding down from the surface that would more than likely have to be rewashed from having his shoes up on it; his manager would probably blow a gasket if he found out about the young man sitting up there and then getting back down without cleaning it again. "You can toss it off of the f-fire escape when you're, um … _finished._"

Chuckling, Alfred grinned and followed the Canadian's movements as he scampered over to turn off the alarm system. He staggered a little, and he seemed sluggish. The young man must have been exhausted. When he turned around and skittered back over to the counter, crawled back up onto it and sat with his knees pressed to his chest, feet clear of the floor, the American took a good look at his face and decided that that was exactly what it was: there were shadows beneath his eyes, bloodshot now from sleepiness, and his skin was a shade or three paler than it normally was. It must have been a while since he slept.

"When did you sleep last?" Alfred asked, voicing his thoughts aloud as he took the other's chin between his fingers, forcing the younger man to look him in the eye. Previously bone white cheeks regained some colour, and Mattie smiled lightly.

"I 'unno," he mumbled. "I worked the night shift in grocery last night, and I didn't sleep when I got home, and then I worked again today so … it's been almost two days."

The lawyer shook his head before hoisting the shovel back up. "I don't know how you do it," he muttered darkly with a deep frown. "I really don't fucking know."

All Matthew had to offer him was a weak smile accompanied by a pathetic shrug that clearly read 'neither do I'.

Shaking his head, letting go of the other's chin despite how soft it was beneath his fingertips, he hummed. "Time to go a-rat slaying," he said with a wry smirk, quietly making his way out of the main room where Matthew was with his hands fisted into the ratty jeans he wore, the threadbare denim clenched and wrinkled by his thin, calloused hands.

Watching the other as he left the room, the Canadian buried his face into his knees, heaving a shuddering sigh, still feeling his face burning pleasantly from how close Alfred had been, how firm yet mild the grip on his chin had been. Another wavering sigh left him and he slid his fingers through his hair, tugging at the ones at the nape of his neck with something equivalent to frustration mingled with delight. The man was practically benign with him, his personality demure to the point of being exploitable should he ever wish to take that route of lowness. The thought, however, had not once crossed his mind; there was no way he could take advantage of him; not without an overwhelming sense of guilt. Even just thinking of doing something like that was making him feel contrite. There were so many people like that, despite them being so hard to find, that got taken advantage of for their personality alone. And from the stories he had heard from the people he knew that were similar to him, it was sickening, and he would never allow something like that to happen to Al; whether it was he himself or one of the man's 'friends'.

Another sigh left him, this one steadier than the last. He was undeniably grateful for man's existence. His thoughts fleeting, somewhat broken and scattered by exhaustion, he plucked at the knee of his pants, where it was beginning to fray. The white threads were fascinating to his burning eyes and the yawns that were beginning to come quite steadily at this point. He blinked slowly, resting his head down on them instead of ruining the material even more than what it already was. Destroyed denim had nothing on these babies.

Without Alfred, though, he didn't know what to really think anymore; before they had become friends, he had been content - well, figuratively; there was no way in hell he had been 'content' to the exact meaning of the word - with floating about aimlessly from day to day business: work, work, sleep. Nothing more, nothing less. Now that he was friends with the man, Matthew knew damn well that he'd never be able to go back to that sort of lifestyle: working two and a half jobs, sleeping whenever he got the chance and just generally doing nothing with his time other than the two afore mentioned things. He had fallen into such an easy routine now, one that he loved and did not want to ever haul himself out of; returning to his old way of living would be undeniably detrimental to his sanity, or what really remained of it.

He just would not be able to do it without ending up a depressed mental wreckage again.

Moments later the American poked his head out of the room, a look of disgust upon his face. "If it weren't for the tail," he said dryly, "I would have thought that was a mutated dog; why are the rats here so fucking gigantic? Seriously man, that's not fucking normal." He left the room, the shovel hung low at his side and, from the other side of the lawyer's legs he could see a skinny, crooked tail dangling limply. A shudder passed through his body and he physically retched, shutting his eyes and grimacing as he tried to keep from vomiting. The door was pushed open and, after a moment, he heard a thump outside in the alley when the carcass was disposed of.

"There's so much shit around that it probably mutated or something," Matthew muttered darkly once his stomach settled, shaking his head and sighing. "This is New York, and that came from the sewers. The Chernobyl disaster sight was probably safer the day after the reactor's meltdown." The Canadian straightened his legs out with a sigh, locking his feet at the ankles as they dangled there.

A bark of laughter left Alfred and the man placed the bloody shovel against the wall, the blade against the floor and little rivulets of the red substance started to pool on the tiling.

Wandering over to him and flopping down on the counter as well, Alfred masked a yawn, shoulders slumping as he leant back a little. His eyes were unfocused and he blinked lazily, the time between each blink growing more drawn out. Then he yawned, flopping back altogether. "I 'unno how you d'it," he mumbled, running his hand down over his face several times as though he were trying to wipe away the sleepiness.

"You should probably go back to your place and sleep," said Matthew, "because you seem sort of out of it."

"Probably 'cause I still feel sort of drunk," Alfred mumbled, rolling over onto his side and curling up against Matthew, masking another yawn. "Too much fuckin' tequila. And shots of brandy." Then after a moment, he outright placed his head on the young man's lap, one hand going to rest on a bony knee, thumb drawing circles steadily upon the faded patched of denim it rested upon. There was another moment of the American stirring around before he got perfectly comfortable, manoeuvring his entire frame so that he was stretched out the length of the decorating table, head of messy blonde hair still perched comfortably in his lap.

At this, he went rigid, indigo eyes flying wide and warmth creeping up into his face, starting at his neck and travelling all the way up to the tips of his ears. Oh sweet God what was he doing? He looked so relaxed, too. Tilting his head to the side, watching Al with a pensive expression, he hesitantly moved his hand to his hair, carding his fingers through wheat blonde locks, a tiny smile forming on his face as the man's eyes fluttered shut as a small, fragile smile formed on his lips. They remained this way for some time - the artist lightly petting the lawyer's hair, occasionally running his thumb along a strong jaw line, cocking his head to the side and observing how the district attorney seemed to almost melt into the table.

When he noticed how Alfred's breathing was beginning to even out, how slack his face was, Matthew gave his shoulder a firm shake, trying to look stern (but ultimately failing) as the other stared up blearily at him with a dopey smile on his face.

"Yeah, you should definitely go back," he grumbled.

"We can't go back," Alfred whined, curling in closer. "This is _bat_ country."

Forcing Alfred to sit upright, laughing at how he grumbled and smacked at his shoulder with a look of frustration on his face, Matthew shook his head. "Bat country or not, Princess, you need to go back and go to sleep. How long were you in bed before I called?"

"Two hours," he said with a yawn. Then, finally, he got down from the table and stretched lazily, rubbing the nape of his neck and blinking slowly. "Have all your problems been taken care of, fair damsel in distress?" Alfred asked with a cheeky grin, pinching the Canadian's still-flushed cheek between his fingers.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he snapped, shoving the other's face away as he puffed his cheeks out, effectively loosening the grip on them. "I'm eternally grateful; however may I possibly repay your kindness?"

Al stretched, scratching his neck and then grinning at the other. He had the slightest scruff along his chin, blonde bristles short and irregular along his jaw line. _Very handsome_, Matt decided resolutely. "I'll keep a payment in mind for sometime down the road," he cackled. "And I'll spring it on you when you least expect it, got it, punk?"

He flipped his hand dismissively. "That's if your memory doesn't fail you before then, old man," he replied smoothly, grinning at how the other spluttered. "But at least you don't have to worry about the Geratol failing you just yet."

"Oh, shot through the heart man, shot through the goddamn _heart_," Alfred wailed, one hand going to cover the so-called wounded area while the other went to his forehead, palm exposed.

"And you're to blame," Matthew said with a light shrug, grinning wryly.

There was a brief pause before the Canadian spluttered at the blank look that registered on the other's narrow face before there was any real reaction to his words.

"Oh, I see what you did there," Al said with a small scowl taking up space on his face as he grabbed the metal shovel and the cloth covered in bleach. Turning the shovel around so that it was blade-side up, he started to wipe the mess from the silver surface.

Coming over to stand beside the lawyer, Matthew turned up his nose at the mess that was there. The blood was caked onto the gardening tool, along with clumps of fur and clots of flesh. His stomach turned and he shuddered, glancing over to the other as he did. "What did you do," he deadpanned, "stab the thing repeatedly?"

"No; I bashed the fucker's head in!" he said cheerfully, a bright smile on his face as he dipped the cloth back into the bleach solution. "Then I made a bigger mess when I chucked the body. Awesome, inn'it?"

" …If you want to call it that, then yeah, sure." Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose before adjusting his glasses - new, sleek black frames that, according to Alfred, made him look older, and according to Gilbert, made him look sexier. The Canadian couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing, coming from the man still dating his boss (and going quite strong, actually). Then he frowned, prying the cloth out of Alfred's hands when he noticed that his skin was beginning to turn red.

"You should be wearing gloves while doing that," he instructed sternly, passing over the yellow rubber gloves he had been wearing earlier. "That's straight, industrial bleach in there and your hands are going to get burned if you do that."

Noticing just how red they really were - the lily-ass boy had probably never done a day of manual labour in his life - he linked their hands together and dragged him over to a sink where he started to run the water until it warmed nicely.

Forcing the other's hands beneath the steady flow of water, Matthew stood beside him and put a dollop of greenish-blue soap into the palm of Alfred's hand, then proceeded to wash the hands that were there, movements firm yet ghostlike, delicate.

"W-What? Why are you washing my hands for me?" Alfred spluttered as his cheeks slowly turned pink. "I can do it myself!" Despite his protest he made no move to pull away.

Shooting a furtive yet exasperated look to the American, the artist shook his head. "There's a certain way you have to wash your hands when there's the beginning of a caustic burn," he said, focusing on washing Alfred's hands and not the heat from the lawyer's body. "You can't just scrub them; you have to be careful because you could risk harming your skin, or depending on how bad the burn is, you could completely tear off parts of it. And you can't use regular soap either, because it's too harsh. What we're using here is a mixture of dish detergent for sensitive skin and aloe Vera gel, believe it or not; it has the right stuff to keep your skin from drying out and peeling afterwards and, uh … yeah."

He was rambling.

Shit.

Why was he rambling?

"I see you must've made the same mistake earlier," Alfred said lowly, removing their wet hands and peering at the Canadian's own raw ones. He held a thin hand in his own large one and brushed his fingers across calloused knuckles and then turned it over to study the palm which was as equally calloused as the front; however it was blood red and peeling in some spots, cracked and bleeding towards the sleeve-covered wrist. His fingers danced near the cuff of his sweater and then, wordlessly, fell away. Eyes as blue as a Texan skyline in July locked with his own troubled ones, and they softened, an almost sad look filling the depths before they turned away, downwards to the hem he had previously ghosted past. Jones knew and Matthew knew he knew, but they had never talked about it. If he could have it his way, they never would. Silence hung thick between them for a moment or so as Alfred turned to rinse of his sudsy hands while his friend stood by, arms folded across his thin chest. Water dripped from his fingertips.

A tiny, awkward laugh escaped the Canadian and he looked away, chewing on the inside of his mouth. "Yeah," he prattled on. "I was so tired when I started cleaning that I just kind of shoved my hands in there and about ten minutes later I finally noticed that _oops_, I hadn't put on a pair of gloves. I'm a smart one, eh?"

"You just said 'eh'," Alfred snickered, grinning broadly. He pinched Matthew's cheek with wet fingertips and tugged lightly. "How Canadian of you, eh. Although it's not nearly as cute as your toque and chesterfield and poutine and beaver tails, eh?"

Slapping his hand away, Matt spluttered and flushed darkly. "Fuck off, asshole," he snapped, punching the other lightly in the stomach.

Alfred grimaced for what was probably show before he grabbed the other into a headlock, rubbing his knuckles along the top of the other's cranium. This elicited a pained yelp from the small man and he viciously elbowed the lawyer in a spot just under his ribs, causing him to draw a sharp breath and whine from the pain that shot up along his side. The two scuffled for a short bit, tugging and shoving and pushing and elbowing one another without any sort of forgiveness, until Matthew's foot got hooked in around Alfred's and the pair pitched forward with twin shouts of despair, crashing into the table before slamming to the floor, the lawyer easily pinning the slight Canadian as everything was cleared off - pots, pans and bowls - the surface and clattered loudly to the floor.

Wrists held above his head and his waist was straddled by the other, Matthew practically snarled as he squirmed, trying to get out of his grasp. "Get off, lard ass," he snapped, whining as the weight shifted and suddenly got a whole ton heavier. How that was possible, he did not know, but damn it all the man must have spontaneously gained twenty pounds.

"What did you call me, whipper-snapper?" jeered Alfred, a bright grin lighting up his features despite how tired he claimed to be. With a force that was frighteningly strong, he kept the frail wrists pinned upward with ease despite the other's intensifying struggles.

"I called you a lard ass, you _goddamn lard ass_," he retorted, squirming desperately now; he was even considering going the 'knee up the backside' route at any given moment. "Seriously man, I think you're crushing my intestines."

"Intestines are for pussies, you goddamn pussy," he laughed, sweetly oblivious to how the other was beginning to line up his knee with his lower back.

Then all of a sudden Alfred felt a burning pain in his lower back/general crotch area as the other's thigh and knee came up sharply, nailing him there without a moment's hesitation. His eyes went wide and a howl of pain left him, while Matthew lay beneath him with a smug smile on his face.

A beautiful relationship indeed.

* * *

It was around five in the evening, and Alfred could still feel a mild throb in his lower back from where Matthew had nailed him (see: context) over twelve hours ago, his bony knee jabbing into the base of his spine in a way that could have been deemed homicidal.

And then he limped off, some twenty minutes later when he could finally stand, with his tail between his legs like the wounded dog he felt like. Sure, he and Matthew were damn good friends - best friends, actually, and he said this with confidence - but the willowy man was not afraid to beat the shit out of him, verbally and physically alike.

But that was what made the strange little friendship between them so strong.

Even if it occasionally required the two of them ending up with numerous bruises, and sometimes what appeared to be the occasional burn mark.

That was only one time, though, and they were both damn good and drunk because otherwise setting fire to random things probably would not have sounded like a very wise decision (although neither of the men could be called wise at all so there's a chance that statement could be otherwise vetoed).

Removing his jacket as he stepped into Matthew's apartment, kicking off his shoes and draping hit over the rung on the coat rack, he glanced around the porch-area; when Matthew had first started renting the place from Greg, there had been a window where the door now was. And instead of modifying the space so that it resembled more of an entryway than anything, the young man had refrained from any such thing and, in fact, kept it all the way it was when he had first moved in: there was an arm chair tucked away in the corner, a Tiffany lamp hanging above it for reading purposes, and along all the walls were shelves lined with books. It felt cozy. Then Alfred paused with his hand on his hip, realizing he felt more at home in Matthew's apartment than what he did his own condo. Go figure.

He locked the door behind him and then wandered into his apartment, hands tucked into his pockets as he looked about him. The place was utterly silent, which was an oddity in itself; Alfred knew that he hated silence and couldn't stand for a place being totally immersed in quiet - he always needed some sort of noise in the background, whether it came from the television or the radio. Although he wasn't sure why, and he was not nearly brave enough to ask, he knew that the Canadian found silence to be maddening.

Saying that the silence permeating the snug, quaint apartment was disconcerting was an understatement.

Glancing around, he peered into the bathroom first. Empty, which was not much of a surprise, considering the door was wide open. Perhaps that should have been his first indicator. He scanned the wide space and pursed his lips lightly. The space was finely decorated, and clean to the point of being immaculate. Very Matthew. The towels were neatly placed on the rack, decorative ones brown and beige with a gold trim while the regular bath towels, hung behind the door, were of a dark brown colour, similar to the fluffy mats on the stone-tile floor.

He snorted. Anal retentive freak.

And he could think this with a certainty because he knew the young man's bedroom was nearly the exact same way, and that he had gotten so bored that his entire closet was colour coordinated. But that, Matthew had claimed, was only because he was bored. Not obsessive compulsive, and totally not crazy. Not at all. Crazy wasn't even a word in his vocabulary, despite how large it was. Something tiny like 'crazy' didn't belong there.

Then he proceeded to make an aside to the lamp, and Alfred began to wonder if this so-called 'third crazy' was actually somewhere along the lines of a fully-blown neural psychosis or something.

Because what normal person talked to the lamp, of all things?

(When asked about it, the Canadian stared at him as though he had grown a second head in the wrong place and then proceeded to talk about why foreign investors were interesting creatures.)

A third crazy his ass; he was the whole damn loony bin rolled into one.

Peering into the bedroom where said lamp was, he ran a hand through his hair as his frustration began to mount. The bed was unmade, mussed from someone having slept in it, but the room was vacated and appeared as though it had been for a few hours now. The clothing the artist had worn at the bakery was folded neatly at the end of the bed, the sweater hung up on one of the posts, faded red material standing out against the dark cherry wood finish. With the exception of the dark blue blankets in a state of disarray, the room would have been spotless otherwise.

Backing out of the bedroom and rubbing the nape of his neck with a broad hand, he huffed. Still no sign of the Canadian, and by now - with all his snooping around and frankly, Alfred was not being the subtlest person about it - he should have been aware of his presence.

Unless he was perfectly aware of it, and this was going to be like the Bob Dylan and the Omelette From Hell incident from back in December…

All the colour that remained in Alfred's face drained from it, and he stood there with an anxious sweat beginning to break out along the nape of his neck and the top of his shoulders.

_Shit_.

Creeping out silently into the living room-kitchen area, he peered around and saw that, too, was empty. The bowl of watermelon candies was still just as full as the last time he saw it, the cushions were arranged the exact same way and the television was off. The curtains however, were pulled wide open allowing the natural sunlight of the evening to filter in through the large windows, illuminating the space with a warm glow and it was cool; when he looked closer at the windows he saw that they were opened a bit to allow a cool breeze to circulate through the apartment.

Matthew's apartment should not have been lacking a Matthew Williams. In fact, that was the one thing it was _supposed _to have; but it didn't, and now the American was starting to worry. Taking out his mobile, he dialled the younger man's number and placed it to his ear, letting it ring and then hanging up with a groan when he heard the other's phone ringing from the bedroom.

"Fuck," he cursed, ending the call and tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. This wasn't good at _all_.

Who else was there for him to call? He could look through Mattie's phone and find Gilbert's number to call him, but he would rather crawl naked through the sewers, eat his brother's cooking and listen to Justin Bieber all at the same time than do something like that. He could also call the NYPD, but they probably got seven hundred missing person's cases in one day. There was the National Guard, too. Oh, and if he really wanted to impress the young man (wherever he was), he could call the Canadian Armed Forces. Or the Coast Guard. Cause they were the same thing - right?

Maybe he could call the Ghostbusters.

Or, maybe, he would just call the next best thing to the National Guard/Canadian Military/Oval Office/Rick Mercer/Stephen Colbert.

Dialling Jade McKnight's number this time around with a little bit more aggression than what he really intended for, he brought the phone back to his ear and folded his free arm across his chest, chewing on the inside of his mouth. He jumped when he heard a landline ringing in the living room - the cordless phone was set down on top of the center table as well. A moment later a female voice answered the other line and he breathed a sigh of short-lived relief.

"Hey, Jade? It's Al; is Mattie down there with you?" he asked, impatience spiking.

"_Nope, I haven't seen 'im since th' other day; he's home though, because he got there 'round twelve this aft'rnoon and I didn't hear any movement until 'round three or four, but no doors openin' or closin'. Sorry, luv._"

The man pinched the bridge of his nose, biting the inside of his mouth even harder than before. A metallic taste filled his mouth and he swallowed back the blood with mild disgust. "Alright, thanks." Hanging up, he slipped the phone into his pocket when he ran out of options of other people to possibly call to get the young man's location. The unnerving quiet, the sudden disappearance of his friend, the fact that no one had come and gone since he had gotten there…

It just did not add up, and frankly, it was beginning to scare him.

Where the hell could he have spooked off to without anyone knowing? And though he knew the Canadian felt safer living in a nice neighbourhood like this particular one and he felt comfortable to leave his door unlocked when he knew someone was coming over, and he usually told his friends to just walk in without bothering to knock, it was very unlike him to leave the door unlocked when he wasn't home; otherwise the place would have been normally locked up like Fort Knox on a high-security lockdown. So there was no way he had left, just like the woman downstairs had said, but if that was the case, then what the hell was goi-

"Oh dear, I'm all out of purple paint. What a shame."

A shriek was startled out of Alfred at the sound of the sudden voice penetrating the suffocating disquiet of the apartment. He whipped around, eyes going wide when he saw Matthew standing at the kitchen table, mostly blocked by a canvas set upon an easel, the wooden device set upon the glossy black surface of the table he was stood in front of. There was a smear of paint on his cheek, the dark blue standing out as a startling contrast against his nearly white skin, and his eyes were heavily lidded and hazy as he chewed upon the wooden end of his paintbrush. The young man was off in his own little world, oblivious to everything around him.

Matthew had been there all along and he had been so engrossed in his painting that he hadn't even noticed his friend enter the apartment.

The breath he didn't even know he had been holding left in a sudden whoosh and all the tension left his body, shoulders slumping and a hand going through his hair. The artist was right there, and perfectly fine. He had gotten all worked up over nothing, and for once, he wasn't bothered by it.

Going over to stand behind the Canadian, Alfred peered over his shoulder at the painting. There was not much forming yet - just a solid purple background and the silhouettes of what appeared to be, from the white outlines of their attire, their postures and the way they were stood about with stiff stances, must have been congress men; politicians. He hummed lightly, appreciatively; one hand going to rest on his lower back as he once again scanned the painting placed in front of him before turning back to the artist.

"Nice piece," he commented with a smile, glancing to the other. His lips dipped into a frown when the other didn't even react, just set the purple paint-coated brush down into a pot of water before picking up another one, dipping the fine bristles into thick black paint and added a little more to one of the men's shoulders.

The guy was a total space cadet.

Laughing and pinching at the other's ribs lightly, he snorted. "C'mon Mattie," he prodded, "come back down to Earth for a little bit, would you?"

Still no reaction.

Alfred puffed his cheeks, huffed and tapped his foot impatiently. Indigo eyes didn't even flicker his way once, the Canadian didn't stir; it was truly as though the young man was on another planet in a completely different galaxy, which was totally uncool. No one ignored Alfred Fucking Jones. At least not cute Canadian boys he had spent several long, gruelling months vying for the attention of. He was _not _going to be beaten out of the running for attention by some stupid-ass painting.

"Ma-_attie_," he whined, stomping his foot, flouncing like a child might and tugging on the hem of his black t-shirt - presumably the one he was going to be downtown when they went drinking (no complaints there, considering how form-fitting the shirt was, how it complimented his torso perfectly). "Focus wouldja? We have to go soon an- damn it, pay attention to me, you _jerk_."

_Still_ no reaction.

(But if Alfred had been looking closely enough, he would have seen the slightly malicious look of amusement in the man's eyes and how the corner of his mouth twitched upward for a split second.)

Giving another whiney huff, he propped his fists on his hips and scowled. There was no way he was going to lose this battle in the war. He was going to totally destroy the attention-grabbing painting (figuratively, because if he did it literally, he would be in the ICU hooked up on a breathing machine for the next month because Matthew would shove a table down his throat and haul it out his ass).

He would win this battle and, eventually, he would win the entire goddamn war or his name was not Alfred Fucking Jones.

(The F actually stood for Franklin, but no one needed to know that).

A flawless plan in mind, Alfred swallowed hard against the lump of nervousness that had risen in his throat. Flawless, yes. Attention-grabbing, most definitely. Possibility to have his balls kicked in all the way to his throat? Very high. Oh well. Everyone had to fuck up a few times on battle tactics; they certainly did during the Great War. Sliding his arms around Matthew's thin waist, pressing his chest flush against the artist's back, he buried his face into the neck next to his mouth and then smirked lightly. The skin there was unblemished, soft, and practically was white as snow. Oh, if he could have his way, it would not be as entirely flawless as it was now. He traced light circles with the pad of his thumb against the Canadian's side and then brought his lips up to his ear, gently tugging the lobe between his teeth and nibbling lightly before trailing them up further to lick and gently nip at the top of his ear.

The young man against his torso went positively rigid, and when he removed his lips from the Canadian's - very, very red - ear, he saw that his eyes were wide with shock, his cheeks were practically scarlet in colour and his lips were after shaping into a small 'o' of shock. And, much to his surprise, Matthew did not make one move to pull away and, instead, seemed to lean in _against _his body.

Interesting.

"Now are you paying attention to me, Mattie?" the lawyer purred, trailing his hand down a little further to rest at the hem of his jeans and sliding his thumb upwards and beneath his shirt to trail against soft, bare skin; inwardly delighting at the little, sharp gasp that escaped the Canadian's lips, followed by a slight whine that made Alfred feel _warm _all over in a way he hadn't felt in a long time (since mid-January, his sex drive - when it came to individuals other than Matthew - just seemed to wither and die)_._

_Very _interesting, he decided. He had not been expecting that kind of reaction in the least.

"Y-Yes," was the breathy reply he received and, for good measure, Alfred gave another swipe of the tongue along his ear once more before letting go with a smirk. It had been these past months that he had wanted to do something like that to the lithe man he was still holding quite firmly, and damn it all, now that he had done it there was a good chance he may or may not have wanted to do just a teensy bit more than something as simple as that little gesture. "I-I'm paying a-attention!"

"Good!" he said brightly, letting go of Matthew (quite begrudgingly) and standing back with his hands propped on his hips and a victorious look upon his slightly-flushed face. Then, with a soft smile, he grabbed the paint brush that had clattered to the table a swiped some of the pigment along his cheek, grinning brightly at the glazed look on the other's still-shocked face. The Canadian licked his lips and then laughed. "Are you still ready to go downtown tonight?"

Matthew just stared blankly at him and he couldn't help but wonder if some detrimental function in his brain had finally given way and snapped. But then he nodded with a grin. "Yeah, definitely. Are we going and grabbing something to eat first, though?"

"Of course," Alfred chuckled, stretching and going to sprawl off on the length of the sofa, feet hooked at the ankles and resting on the arm as he looked over to the other as he set about cleaning up the mess of paints and brushes. His movements were not nearly as graceful or easy as usual; now they were fumbling and halting, completely unlike him.

Had he really taken him that off-guard?

But then he turned his gaze on him fully, eyes critical as he studied the willowy form of the other. Off-guard, yes, but Matthew's 'caught off-guard' reaction was usually a well-aimed punch in the face. Not a lean-back and moan quietly in a way that sounded very pleased. There was something more to it than what he had originally realized. For a moment the two locked eyes and Al was given a tiny, shy smile - nothing like what he had ever been given before. It made his heart flutter and he bit the inside of his cheek, returning the smile and feeling his chest flutter at how the other's eyes lit up, how he flushed and quickly looked away once more.

And then he started to wonder if there really _was _something more to it.

* * *

There are probably mistakes and inconsistencies abound in this chapter here, but I cba to go and fix it. I don't know how this chapter got written. I really, really don't. There must be faeries floating about or something because my brain is still dead from the past two weeks of working over sixty hours haaaaah I hate everything and I can't sleep anymore and I'm sick and I hate life BUT HERE YOU GO ALFRED LICKING MATTIE'S EAR I HOPE YOU LIKE IT ABOUT AS MUCH AS I DID.

I kind of squealed while writing it because I've been getting some serious blue balls with the lack of fondling in their relationship.

And did you guys like the sudden time jump to April? I know I did. That was because I suddenly realized I had no idea about what I could stick in between a three month period to keep the story from dragging so I just said fuck that noise and made it April. HERP. Sorry if this chapter isn't up-to-par with all the others BUT I MADE IT LONG. So I could torture you all with horrendous character interaction, pointless almost-fluff, too much dialogue and all that good stuff your mom won't let you eat for breakfast.

-sighs-

Thanks for all the reviews and favourites and comments and ujsdghdjghjdgjglk EVERYTHING.

OH, AND IKANADIAN, BECAUSE YOU ALWAYS REVIEW ANON, I COULDN'T REPLY. UH, I LOVE YOU. AND YOUR FRIEND. SO MUCH. SO. SO. SO. MUCH.


	17. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.  
**_Part One._

It was too damn warm in there; no more than an hour in the place and his back was slicked with sweat and the general discomfort of it was beginning to set in.

Glass of vodka in hand and seated at the bar with his back to the dance floor, Matthew hummed lightly, sipping the alcohol as he scanned the bottles lining the back shelving of the beverage station, looking thoughtful as he probably contemplated what he would purchase next. Beside him stood Alfred, back to the bar and facing the dance floor, sipping from his glass of tequila as he scanned the people in the club with a bored look upon his lean face.

Over the course of the past few weeks, Alfred had noticed something somewhat crucial: he was beginning to tire of going to clubs and partying with his social-circle, if that was what you wanted to call them. It was an odd revelation of sorts, and not entirely one he had expected to deal with just yet; he knew it would happen, although his idea of 'eventually' not really coming to mind for at least another ten years. Not since high school had he grown bored of drinking and socializing; he did it essentially every weekend, even all throughout his last two years of grade school and throughout his entire university life. Drink Friday and Saturday night, live through the hangover Sunday morning and then rush through whatever studying or homework he had Sunday night. For the first time since he was sixteen, Alfred had absolutely no interest in going to a party and getting drunk.

The sudden change in perspective was indeed an unusual one, and very unexpected. It was so odd for the simple fact that he usually went out once every weekend, without fail, for the simple fact that his friends usually invited him and both parties were under the pretext that Alfred quite enjoyed to party - which he did. Frankly, the American had anticipated a liver transplant by the time he was thirty-seven, and that was at the latest age possible. But, since he had started hanging out with the young man that now lived three blocks away from him he had almost lost his taste in going and getting drunk; while yeah, he still enjoyed sitting around his apartment and getting absolutely smashed with the guy, but for some reason it just didn't appeal to him all that much to go out and do so publicly. Maybe it was the club scene itself that no longer seemed to hold any lustre, and not so much the drinking part considering they had been there an hour and he had already put away two pints of beer and two tequilas.

Maybe he was finally, and unfortunately, getting old.

Either way it was something the American couldn't even make heads or tails out of, because despite having felt this way since mid-March and this being a month later, he was still there. He had said nothing in disagreement to the idea, simply held back on it and went along for the ride - another unusual thing. What was happening to his personality? His voice? What was he turning into, some passive-aggressive maple-munching arti- oh, no, that was Matthew. He must have been turning into a passive-aggressive _hamburger_-munching lawyer (or as Matthew, who held nothing back when it came to being crude, would sometimes snicker and say 'hamburger-humping'. Which of course they both proceeded to laugh like idiots over). Every other time he just sort of grumbled, said fine, and would then proceed to take his dead sweet time in getting ready. This time wasn't as bad, seeing as he managed to convince the Canadian into going to the club with him, although it had nearly been impossible; he seemed to know the lawyer partied at all the high-class clubs in Manhattan, not just a regular dance bar, and had seemed damn well keen on avoiding it.

He glanced over to Matthew now, who was now talking quite animatedly with a female bartender, a bright smile on his face and using intricate hand gestures as he usually did, the woman blushing and giggling as the Canadian gave her a winning smile, darkly hued eyes sharp and taking in her every movement.

Spluttering into his drink, he lowered it from his mouth as he watched Mattie give her a sly wink to accompany the charming, sweet smile he wore. He watched as spindly fingers snaked their way through loosely curled locks of blonde, how he practically had the woman cooing over (obviously over his good looks) him and probably the fact that he was a Canadian because for some reason American chicks seemed to dig a Canadian guy with an excellent bone structure. Alfred stared blankly at him, face flushing at his thoughts. Select American males could also be added to the list of admirers apparently. And he couldn't help but notice how relatively (actually, the closer he watched him, it was actually very) indifferent the guy was to the fact that he had this woman completely vying for his attention.

The young man was, apparently, his Northern counterpart in terms of being a bit of a Casanova.

And Alfred, for the first time in years, felt an almost overwhelming sense of envy wash over him as he observed the ease with which the Canadian flirted with the pretty girl behind the counter. Not because of the fact that he was flirting so easily, so openly, with a beautiful woman, but because of the fact that he wasn't flirting with who he was _supposed _to be flirting with.

Matthew was supposed to be flirting with _him, _not with some broad that has tits the size of Russia.

A growl practically slipped through his lips but he suppressed it, bringing his glass to his lips and swallowing back a mouthful of the alcohol with a grimace before lowering it. This just was not fair - alright, why he expected the young man to flirt with him and him alone was beyond his spectrum of understanding, but for the love of fuck why wasn't he? Because it was no hidden factor that the American had most certainly been (attempting) flirting with him. Taking his coat for him, smiling a little sweeter than usual, occasionally touching his elbow gently while talking, letting his gaze linger longer than usual, even once going as far as putting his hand on his lower back and slowly sliding his arm so that it just draped loosely around his waist. And how did he react? Well, that's the whole thing: he didn't react to it, at all. All he did was smile and go along as he usually did, and the amount of frustration Alfred was plagued with by this was immense and was multiplying exponentially.

Honestly, in trying to let him know that 'Hey, I may or may not be head over heels in love with you' in an indirect manner, without actually doing it the way they did in the movies - you know, getting up on top of the roof tops and screaming it out for the entire fucking world to hear (he totally would but he was pretty sure that it was a violation in the noise codes Manhattan had) - he felt like he was on the other side of square one. Square zero. In other words: he wasn't getting anywhere with it. He had an easier time trying to just get to know him than what he would in, more or less, confessing his love for the tiny man. There was no way he could still be oblivious to the American's adoration for him, considering what he had done to him earlier. No fucking way in hell could he still not realize that Alfred wanted him and _only_ him. That Alfred was already his.

Well, looking at it from where the grass is greener (but that might just be because of the fertilizer from all the _bullshit_), at least he still had a jaw after licking his ear and holding him the way he had a few hours ago.

Glaring silently, scrutinizing the two beside him from the corner of his eye and trying to make it appear as though he were still surveying the dance floor, he tried listening in and figuring out the content of their conversation. He strained to hear, and even though he was getting nothing more than broken bits and pieces of dialogue, the music causing a slight clog in his hearing, he didn't get very much of whatever it was they were discussing - only dribs and drabs came his way. But he knew they were talking about art - one of the few subjects he could barely breach when it came to the Canadian and their conversations. He knew practically nothing about art, he knew of not even a handful of artists (and as for the ones he most enjoyed, he had absolutely jackshit of an idea about who they were), and he wouldn't even know where to begin when it came to discussing a piece of art. Alfred knew he was inept at it, so he never brought it up, whether it was the art of another painter or Matthew's own pieces. He would tell them they were cool, that they looked good, but he could not discuss them, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he wanted to. That was one of the few flaws in their relationship - besides his own inability to open up about his family life, but that was just from a simple lack of desire to do so. And Alfred was, rightfully so, terrified that it - his inability to sit down and discuss art with him, as simple as it was - would be something that would keep the Canadian from liking him in return; how could he fall for someone that didn't share one of his major passions in life, pray tell?

His stomach turned, a mixture of alcohol and anxiety making it tremble and twitch, and he swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest, the discomforting burning in his throat and at the back of his eyes. _It wasn't fair_.

'_Fuck,_' he thought bitterly, massaging the bridge of his nose as a means of wiping at his eyes. '_Arthur's the soppy drunk, not me. I must be getting old or something and now I'm getting his angst-machine genes. That fucking limey whore._'

When he brought his glass to his mouth he felt nothing more than ice cubes hit his lips and he frowned, looking down into the tumbler. Empty already. Fuck. Turning to the other bartender, he offered as much of a smile as he could at the moment and handed him the glass.

"Will it be another tequila, Mr. Jones?" he inquired politely, taking the glass with a nod of thanks and placing it in the sink as he prepared to make the lawyer another.

Alfred was thoughtful for a moment. "Yes," he said, "but make it an Espolón Paloma, would you?"

The bartender smiled wryly at him as if to say 'on the easy drinks already?' "A piece on the side?"

"I don't have tits, so no thanks," he snorted. "I may like the occasional fruity drink, but I'm not enough of a fruit to let everyone know that's what I'm having."

Taking the drink a few moments later - sans the piece of grapefruit on the side, as per request - Alfred sipped and hummed softly, enjoying the taste of grapefruit, lime and club soda mixed in with Espolón Tequila. It was smooth, sharp and better than drinking a straight glass - which meant he wouldn't get as drunk half as quickly as he usually would, considering he would simply drink straight booze until he felt close to puking. When his stomach started to turn and threaten to have a Boston Tea Party in there, he would usually choose that as a good indicator to switch to the water.

Glancing back over to Matthew, he saw the young man was sat alone there now, the lovely woman he had been flirting up a storm with having left him to wander down along the rest of the bar to serve other patrons. Between his fingers was a piece of paper and the smirk on his face was one belonging to someone that was feeling properly smug with life; it was obvious the woman had given him her number, but Alfred couldn't help but wonder if the Canadian had given his to her in return. And he really, really hoped that he didn't but the lawyer wasn't crossing his fingers anytime soon.

Approaching him and sitting down beside him, Alfred gave him a weak smile as he leant back against the bar, back resting against the plush padding around the edges. "That was quick," he said with a light laugh, sipping his Paloma and staring out across the dance floor, feeling particularly uneasy. '_Just too much liquor in a short time_,' he reassured himself as he sipped from his icy glass. '_Too much liquor makes you paranoid; always has, always will_.'

Matthew's laughter was melodious and Alfred felt his cheeks warm. "I didn't intend to get her phone number," he commented as he idly sipped his from what was still his first glass of vodka - Skyy, if Alfred remembered correctly, was his favourite, next to Russian Prince. But the latter one was only for if he wanted to get totally smashed to the point that he didn't remember anything from the night before. "Oh well. That's just another number to add to the pile."

"You ever gonna call her back?" Alfred asked around the rim of the glass, starting at the array of bottles lining the walls, trying to wrap his mind around how to pronounce some of the foreign ones.

"Not likely," Matthew snorted, draining back the rest of his drink and setting the empty glass on the table and propping his cheek in his propped-up hand.

Trying to ignore the slight sense of elation he felt, Al risked a moment to glance over at the other, finding him to be studying the rows upon rows of bottles as well, a contemplative look upon his soft, heart-shaped face. "Why do you say that?"

"For one, I'm not into picking up girls I meet at clubs," he said, holding up one finger. Then he held up a second finger. "The second reason is because frankly, she's lacking in the conversational skills department by a good bit when it comes to my personal standards. And honestly, they're really fucking high. If we can't have a conversation that extends to more than one side, then fuck off."

Laughter left him, relief-filled laughter, and Alfred ran a hand through his hair, sipping his drink again and, when he opened his mouth to speak, he found an arm draped around his shoulder. An arm that did not belong to Matthew. Glancing up and holding back a scowl of displeasure, he locked eyes with the bright, mischievous green-gray ones of a tiny man with wavy ash blonde hair, a smattering of freckles and a sunny grin that could rival the lawyer's own.

"What's on the go, lil' man?" the blonde teased, a thick southern drawl accenting his light tenor. "And why, pray tell, did you not call and tell us you were comin' downtown tonight, hm?"

"Jeff!" he said, laughing a little as the elfin man beside him ruffled his hair, then suddenly peering closely at Matthew and then altogether opting for outright ignoring the American.

Then his stomach turned.

Shit.

It was _Jeff_.

Notoriously gay amongst their ranks and known for flirting with everyone with a penis, testosterone and who looked like they would gladly be the bitch in the relationship, Jeff apparently seemed to be quite set on the lithe young man that was in the process of ordering another drink. Jeff was, also, quite good at landing them, too.

And, well, looking at Matthew and just how tiny he was (see: body size), there was no way in hell he would be able to properly dominate someone - in fact, he was almost feminine with his looks and slender, supple body. Alfred flushed hotly. It was no wonder he had been attracted to the Canadian in the first place. Because yes, he admitted that the first time he had met him, he had thought the man was actually a woman.

But back to Jeff and the way he was practically leering at the Canadian that remained utterly oblivious at the way he was being, essentially, mentally undressed by the Texan. Or maybe he was ignoring him, because the little fucker was really good at doing stuff like that; he had what Alfred liked to call selective hearing and, even better than that, selective awareness. And more than once he had employed it in Alfred's presence.

"Hey there," Jeff purred, practically shoving Alfred off of his stool as he sidled up close to the Canadian, leaning forward, head tipped to the side as he gave him a charming smile, eyes partially lidded as he scanned his gaze over Matthew. The American stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest and fuming with anger and jealousy, yet somehow unable to find it in himself to actually fight back against his friend because, despite the fact that the man was a good four or five inches shorter than him, the little minion would have no trouble beating his ass black, blue and all across the bar.

Turning his eyes to settle upon the other, Matthew arched a delicate blonde eyebrow, a look of cool indifference upon his pale, pale face. "Might I _help_ you?" he asked scathingly, voice cold, detached as he ran his finger along the rim of his glass, leaning back slightly in his seat to take a better look at the obviously over-confident American seated beside him. There was practically an aura of winter hanging about him.

Oh, the little _ice princess_.

"Just a little question," he said with a sly grin, "Do you have any Scottish in you?"

Then Matthew blinked, looking utterly confused and somewhat anxious as the icy exterior melted, and Alfred found himself feeling the exact same set of emotions; just what the hell was Jeff playing at, exactly? "A-Any _Scottish_?" he asked, rubbing the nape of his neck awkwardly. "Irish, yes. But no Scottish. Why … why do you want to know?"

"Would you like a little Scottish in you sometime later this evening?"

Losing any and all possible expression on his face, Matthew stared flatly at Jeff for one long moment of silence, even until the Texan squirmed a little, glancing over to his friend with an anxious look upon his face as he shrugged minutely. It was as if the man was trying to say 'what's up with him?' He was damn well going to find out what was up in a moment or two once the Canadian's initial shock wore off. Suffice to say he was fucked.

And then Matthew dumped his (full) glass of vodka all over the front of Jeff's pants, his smile bright as he stood. "Frankly, you're not at all as cute as you think you are," he said, his smile sweetly murderous, sliding two fingers beneath the man's chin and leaning in close, expression coy. Their faces were not even two inches apart. "And baby, for the record, I'd rather a _big_ Scotsman, not a miniscule little scrap of a Scotsman; because you're obviously compensating for a distinct lack of _something_. Pip pip cheerio, darling, enjoy your evening."

As Alfred stood to the side, howling with laughter to the point that there were tears rolling down over his cheeks and Jeff looked as though he were ready to burst out into tears at any given moment, the Canadian sidled up beside Al and placed a hand on his chest, glancing over at Jeff and smirking darkly, a coldly amused look in his eyes. Then he turned his attention fully upon the lawyer that had gone positively rigid. The hand on his chest caused the laughter to instantly cease, effectively capturing Jeff's attention as well. Matthew brought his mouth to within a few centimetres of his ear, his breath hot on the shell and smelling of nothing more straight vodka. "I'm going and dancing," he purred into his ear, index finger doodling idle circles on his chest as the American's face flushed - and it wasn't a reaction from neither laughing too much nor the booze setting in. "I'll find you later, if you want."

The only reaction Alfred could possibly procure was a weak nod of the head, face going beet red as- _holy shit, did Matthew really just lick his ear? _Blue eyes wider than possible and his mouth hanging slack, he turned slightly to watch the Canadian as he pushed his way out onto the main floor's dance area. Briefly he glanced back at Alfred and winked slyly before altogether disappearing into the crowd of people. Then he turned back to Jeff, and both of their expressions were filled with a tantamount of disbelief.

"Did you just-"

"I think he-"

"- see what he-"

"- must really like -"

"- did to my ear?"

"- _like _you to do something like that."

And then Alfred stared dumbly at Jeff, feeling his legs go weak as he somehow staggered over and flopped down on a bar stool, draining back what was left of his Paloma - which was a considerable amount. His head spun for a moment as the alcohol settled into his system and then he pushed the glass away, deciding to lay off on the booze for at least a little while. "What do you mean?" he croaked out, staring at Jeff, still disbelieving.

"Dude, I just tried to get in his pants and he turned me down," he said flatly. "And it wasn't that he was a straight dude, because frankly, my gaydar works for up to thirty feet. If he's not gay, he's at least bisexual. Hands fucking down; the dude's gorgeous so why would he not take advantage of that and play both sides of the field? But look at what he just did to you - the little bastard just nipped at your ear in the sexiest way possible and got impossibly close to tell you something he could have while sitting the way we are right now. And the hand on your chest? Puh-leeze. He's on fucking fire with his gayness. I think he likes you. A lot."

The words barely registered with the perfectly dumbstruck American. Jeff knew what he was talking about when it came to this sort of thing. Beside being a life insurance salesman that deemed himself the Saviour of the Elderly based upon the fact that he somehow knew every loophole there was and guided them through it so they could take full advantage of their potential benefits, and so that the remaining recipient could earn everything their dearly departed had built up without any of it being lost to a major corporation as what sometimes happened, Jeff Wills was also one hell of a matchmaker; for some reason he was damn good at being able to tell that Person One liked Person Two, and although they were totally unaware of it, that Person Two was also quite infatuated with Person One, just too afraid to do anything about it.

Which was what now seemed to be the case.

Rounding sharply on the Texan, his expression pleading, he pointed across the floor. "Are you sure?" he choked out, somewhat panicked and wholly distressed. "Like, I mean are you fucking positive?"

Wills arched an eyebrow. "Do you even need to ask that, Al?" he demanded smoothly, leaning back with an air of arrogance surrounding him. "Please, I have _never _been wrong when it comes to this relationship shit. I mean Allan and Chrissy have been married for how long now? And who, exactly, was it that got them dating? Yeah, me, thanks. Same goes with Chris and his wife, Vanessa. Same thing goes with Fredrick and the fact that I totally managed to hook him up with Sydney, that girl from Harvard that was taking Engineering or whatever it was. They're still together. So, frankly I ain't ever been wrong, and y'all can sit the fuck down because I don't ever _plan_ on being wrong."

Cocky? Just a little. But the fucker was absolutely right about it, too. And Jeff seemed positively gleeful about this considering the fact that he had been trying for near ages to find someone for Alfred to date, but the lawyer had turned down every single one of his suggestions.

"I just never expected you to be the kind that's into guys," he hummed thoughtfully, taking the rum and coke he had ordered and sipping from it. Impish green-gray eyes turned in his direction and the insurance salesman winked slyly. "You should give _me_ a try sometime, handsome. I'm quite gentle if you need me to be."

Alfred choked, not entirely sure whether to laugh at it or cry a little. "No thanks, man," he said weakly, patting the other's shoulder lightly, shaking his head as he massaged a temple. "I'm not into guys."

Confusion crossed Jeff's face and he pulled back, setting down his drink and just staring. "But I thought that you-"

He held up a finger, smiling. "Matthew's an exception. I don't know how or why, but he is the only exception and he will be the only exception."

"It must be that damn bone structure of his. I don't think I've ever seen a collar bone like that on a guy before, or hips for that matter. What the fuck."

"Fucking perfect, I know."

The two sighed longingly in unison, and then Alfred glared sharply at the Texan, his expression dangerous as he eyed the small man hotly. In retaliation, Wills held up two hands and shook his head. "Bros before hos, man," he said. "And since you're my bro and that's your potential ho, my hands won't go near that gorgeous ass of his no matter how much they want to, a'ight? S'just law of the male jungle and I totally abide by it, _suh._"

Alfred continued to glare at him for a moment and then nodded slowly, sighing as he propped his cheek in his palm, staring at the countertop, trying to ignore the way the bass in the music was thrumming so loudly that the glasses on the counter vibrated dangerously. He was being ridiculous; tenacious might he be, Alfred knew that Jeff would keep away from Matthew, and that he had absolutely nothing to worry about when it came to him.

"I hope you're right, Jeff," he murmured suddenly, covering his mouth with the sides of his hands as he shut his eyes. "I really hope you're fucking right about this." He reopened his eyes and then glanced at the Texan, expression doleful and akin to being downright depressed.

The other clapsed Alfred's shoulder in a friendly manner. "Patience man," he said softly, but still loudly enough to be heard over the music. "I have a good feeling about this; I don't know why, but I just do. Looking at you two just then felt right. So yeah, just have a little patience, dude. That's all you need. Besides a really stiff drink."

Smiling weakly, Alfred nodded, sliding his fingers through his hair and remaining still for a moment, fingers still resting intertwined with the blonde strands at the nape of his neck. Patience was what he had been telling himself since December. Patience was what Arthur had told him in December. And now here was Jeff, in April, telling him to have patience. Matthew had might as well tell him to have patience, too, and a spot of tea while he was at it while he sat down and smoked a draw.

In terms of tolerance, Alfred did not know how much longer he would be able to hold out with the charade he had been forging thus far; it was beginning to be just too much for him to handle, too much for his emotions that were slowly but surely beginning to fry. One of these days, when they were sitting on the sofa watching television or playing video games or whatever the hell it was they did now, he was just going to pin the bastard to the sofa and kiss him senseless. Kiss him until they were both panting. Kiss him until they were flushed and desperate for more. Even more than that, he just wanted to be able to hold him, really. Not that much to ask for, considering the friendship they had was amazing; he just craved something along the lines of a meaningful intimacy - something he had never shared with anyone else. He turned his gaze upwards for a moment, and arched his eyebrow in His general direction, as if to say, "You got a problem with that, Douche Bag?"

And even despite hearing Wills' encouragement, that he had a chance with the Canadian, and that he liked him, Alfred still could not muster the courage to say anything. Still could not do so in fear of completely fucking up and destroying every little thing they had.

This love shit was way too complicated for his liking. It really, really was.

The two men sat in an affable silence - or as much of a silence as one could get in a club filled with loud music and sweaty, laughing, chattering people - until it was suddenly no longer just the two of them. Instead, they had been joined by Allan and Chris, the two men already fairly drunk and snickering about something neither of the men at the bar had an idea about and would probably never learn of, but something like that was usually for the better.

"Hello Dumb and Dumber," Alfred commented dryly, rolling his eyes as he turned back to face the bar, a sigh on his lips.

"Alfred!" Allan declared, his own Texan accent - he and Jeff had both left the small town they lived in to attend university at Harvard at the same time, and both of them had remained in New York to work - thickened by the booze he consumed; more than likely it had mainly been Jack Daniels, because the bastard reeked of it. "Totally didn't know you were here, man. Totally did not know."

"Didn't know you were here either," Alfred said as he watched the man - a computer programmer that worked for Microsoft - sway with a look of slight interest upon his face.

Chris, on the other hand, gave him a cold, less-than-enthused greeting, which Alfred didn't even bother with acknowledging because, honestly, watching the ceiling fans over the bar go round and round was a far more interesting experience.

Tuning out the conversation that was starting to pick up beside him and instead deciding to focus exclusively on the freshly ordered glass of chardonnay before him - he was feeling fancy, alright? - he hummed lightly, drumming his finger on the rim of the glass in time to the music, something he had heard playing on the radio before, but remixed so that it was better suited to the atmopshere of a club. Didn't they do that with most mainstream music anyway? It was either they remixed it, or they mashed it up with another song, preferably one from the eighties; they just couldn't just leave classic eighties music alone, could they?

Feeling the phone in his pocket vibrate, he hauled it out and flicked his thumb across the screen, reading the text message there with a look of mild interest. '_**Back, right.**_' The mild interest turned into a dubious happiness and he stood, holding his glass of wine and gesturing off-handedly to the side as his attention was slowly waning on the club scene and was in the process of being redirected elsewhere.

"I'll be right back," he said lightly, eyes scanning the room, mind flitting, unable to focus. "Will you guys still be here at the bar, or am I going to have to hunt you down?" He sipped the alcohol and paused before swallowing. Nice vintage.

The three exchanged a look of collective contemplation and Chris spoke, "We'll probably just wait here until you get back, alright?"

"Sounds fine by me." Alfred nodded, distracted and already heading away from the bar, oblivious to how the others watched him walk away; Jeff and Allan with a shared look of confusion while Chris frowned into his glass, eyes narrowing darkly, a sort of disappointment in them.

Managing to shove his way through most of the crowd without spilling a single drop of his wine (it was an art and he had perfected it), Alfred pushed past dancers and giggling drunks, edging his way to the far-right side of the room. Slipping noiselessly past a security guard, channelling his inner-spook (Matthew may or may not have taught him how to master the ability of walking through a room without any of the attention landing on him), he ducked down behind the DJ booth, scanning his gaze along the wall. There was a door that said 'Authorized Personnel Only', which he paid little to no heed to, simply pushed it open.

The hall he entered was immersed in black, and smelt damp; cold. But despite the hindrance of no light to guide himself by, he felt along the wall as his eyes adjusted to the dark, letting the roughly painted walls guide him along as shapes finally made themselves known to him. From what he could make out he seemed to be in a storage area of sorts; there were boxes and crates piled high - more than likely filled with more spirits should the bar run out. Stepping forward, he gasped when his foot dropped out beneath him and he stumbled, latching onto a hand rail and steadying himself. Stairs. Of course there would be stairs, the goddamn fuckers that wanted to break people's necks even though that particular person knew damn well that he shouldn't have been there so technically it was his own fucking fault if he ended up a bruised and in-a-body-cast-mess. Once he felt safe enough, he trotted down over a flight of stairs, drained back the rest of his wine for a matter of safety and set the glass down in a discreet corner. Four doors. A frown settled upon his lips. Back, right, was what the message from his Dealer had said. Goddamn Man was as fucking vague as they came.

Going for the door on the far-right as well, he pushed it open (exhaling heavily as no alarms were set off) and stepped out into the cold night air - such a difference out there than compared to that in the club; he hadn't even realized he had been sweating until he had stepped out of the establishment and onto cool, damp pavement.

Craning his neck about the alley to see where He might have been, Alfred nearly came clean out of his skin when someone's hand latched onto his elbow. Although it had appeared he had been alone in the deserted alley, that was not the case; someone had been standing behind him all along. His stomach went to ice; that meant someone must have been following him the entire while without his knowledge. Whipping around, hand immediately going to his back pocket where he kept his Swiss knife, he froze and then shook his head, leaning away and jerking his arm out of His grasp. The Bastard had either followed him from the club or had been hidden from view - that was all he could think of it being.

"Mr. Jones," He chuckled, a light accent lacing his voice - he sounded as though he came from somewhere in Eastern Europe; probably Slovakia, or maybe Bosnia and Herzegovina. "So easy to scare, so easy to scare; 'tis amusing. How are you this evening?"

"Pretty damn awesome," Alfred commented idly. He had no care for inane banter; he wanted what he came for and to be done with the Man until next month. "You have it?"

"So eager to cut to the chase," He snickered icily, rocking back and forth on His heels, hands clapsed behind His back. He wore a sharp black suit, closely cut to His deathly thin frame, skin so pallid that He resembled an undertaker in a horror film set in the nineteen hundreds. Or, at least he would have blended in perfectly in some Transylvanian locale. Then a bag was handed to Alfred, small in size but packed with a white substance. "You have your payment, yes? Or do I come back for it some other time?"

Untying the bag, he licked his a finger and dipped it in, eyes never leaving the other as he brought it back out, coated with a small bit of cocaine. He licked it, paused, and then nodded. Proper coke, pure and he was paying the price for it through the nose. "Two grand," Alfred quipped in a flat, uncaring voice as though the sum had absolutely no effect on his personal being, removing a wad of elastic-bound hundreds. He made a mental note of how his dealer's eyes lit up greedily upon seeing the stack of green bills, but he did not vocalize upon it. "This covers this time around, and last month's stash so my bill is settled. Happy?"

Snatching the money from Alfred, He skimmed His fingers through the bills, mouthing moving silently as He counted the money to Himself. "Very happy," He murmured, once more skimming His fingers along the top of the bills, watching as they fanned out. Then, suddenly, He looked up with a hawkish expression upon His skeletal face. "Although I must comment; you have not been buying nearly as much cocaine as you usually do. You are not going to another dealer are you, Mr. Jones?"

Alfred rose an eyebrow, slipping the bag of coke after he tied it shut once more into a pocket on the inside of his light sweater, zipping it up to make sure it remain closed and that the drug remained secure. "No, it's not that," he said, choosing his words carefully. "I just don't feel the need to have as much, y'know what I mean?"

He stared at him for a moment, sunken dark brown eyes burning icily in their sockets, the sallow skin of his face deathly beneath the scant light near the end of the alley, almost luminescent. He was practically a reaper in appearance, and Alfred felt more than uneasy when he was around the Man.

"Hearing such a thing from customers usually bothers me quite a bit," He mused aloud, looking skyward and continuing to rock back and forth upon His heels. Alfred found the movement to be maddening and he wanted to grab the Other by the throat and force Him to stand still. "But it does not bother me too much, not with you. You do not need drug to function. So I do not mind if you stop taking. You are good man; you would belong amonst the Intelligentsia, where I am from. You _do _belong amongst them, the intellectuals. And so does that young man you fancy."

The smile He wore now was unsettling, venomous, and His eyes were practically bottomless. It reminded the lawyer of a cobra.

Stomach turning to ice and bile rising in his throat, Alfred swallowed it back. "H-How do y-you-"

"I know more than you think," He snickered, waggling His finger deviously as He started to back up, turning upon His heel as He made to leave the alley. "As long as you are user, and as long as you pay me when I want my money, you will be fine. Both of you. No worrying, no worrying. All will be fine. When you stop buying from me, you let me know and I leave you and your Love alone, yes?"

Did that mean…?

And then he was gone before he had a chance to say anything, leaving Alfred standing shaken and shaking in the alley, the contents of his stomach threatening a full-scale rebellion.

It had to.

He touched the packet of cocaine in his pocket, for once in his life truly wondered if it was worth it, and then promptly turned and vomited until he was violently dry-heaving, stomach muscles contracting painfully and knees weak to the point that he almost dropped onto the cold, damp asphalt.

All he knew was that he needed to find Matthew, and fast.

* * *

So, in order to avoid making you all sit down and read a chapter that's twenty or more pages, and what's bound to be well over 15k words, here's part one of two. Enjoy. I'll leave the extended author's notes until the next chapter, so I'm not clogging up too much space.

But, uh, yeah. Enjoy?

Thank you so much for all the reviews you guys! They mean so much. :'D Until later~ -hearts-


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.  
**_Part Two._

All he knew was that he needed to find Matthew.

Alfred wasn't entirely sure how he managed to get back over to the bar without face planting, but he did. His legs felt rubbery, his ankles were weak and blindly he had shoved past other people in his haste. Tunnel vision plagued him. Although he didn't want to admit it, he knew what kind of Man He was: cunning, vicious, and just about as low as they came, but of all the awful things He could have been, he was also deathly honest. Not once had He ever lied to Alfred; not once had He ever taken the round about way for explaining things. He had always been straightforward and deathly truthful to the point of being cruel.

What would make Him start lying all of a sudden?

There was no need for Him to use scare tactics; Alfred knew this much as he shoved his way through the dance floor, elbowing individuals out of his way, not caring for the venomous looks that were being thrown in his direction. No need for scare tactics for the simple fact that the American kept up on the payments for his cocaine. It was that simple - as long as he paid within a few days and no longer than two weeks after getting a fix, he was left alone. But if he didn't make timely payments, he was fucked.

He tripped around two dancers and then paused, doing a double-take; one of the people he had just passed was a tiny, dainty blonde with a figure that was deathly slim and happened to be wearing a black t-shirt and tight-fitting dark wash jeans. Nice ass, too. Immediately he turned and shoved his way through, paused and flushed a little when he realized that, no, it wasn't him. It wasn't Matthew because this person was actually a woman.

Go figure; the one time he was actually looking for the guy he found a woman.

That was usually how it worked in the movies, so why not here?

Scanning the crowd anxiously, he forced his way past another group of dancers - some young women wearing essentially no clothing at all, and he wasn't even ashamed to admit that he may or may not have slightly ogled at the group for a moment longer than necessary because damn it all, just because he had a thing for a certain Canadian, it did not mean women no longer fascinated him. Because they did. A lot. Hello beautiful creatures with curves to kill. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts and scanning the dance floor one last time, trying to get as much of a glimpse of chin-length blonde curls as he possibly could, and it was all to no avail. The young man was nowhere to be seen.

Staying on the floor, he decided, was useless; Matthew could have been anywhere by that point - a thought that made him sick. What the hell was it with him and his attempts at pseudo-invisibility? It was like he had some sort of gene that made him invisible for a certain amount of time.

It must have been a Canadian thing, and he really did not fucking like it.

His shirt sticking to his back from sweat by the time he got to the bar and he grimaced as he plucked it away from his skin. Blue eyes roamed the length of the bar until they settled on the lithe Canadian. And this time it was him, no mistake. He exhaled upon the immediate sense of relief he felt and he made a beeline straight for Mattie, nearly knocking someone over in the process without so much as an apology. Edging past several others and by-passing his friends (who had yet to realize he was there again), he approached the younger man, grabbing onto his elbow and peering at him. Cheeks that were usually pallid were flushed from exertion, and curly hair near the nape of his neck was damp with sweat, the loose ringlets and waves even more prominent than usual.

Glancing over to the frantic American, Matthew gave him a bright smile but it slowly started to fade. He set down his nearly empty glass and peered closely at him. "A-Are you okay, Al?" he asked, resting his hand on the man's cheek. "You … you're white as a ghost! Are you sick? Did something happen?" Before he even had a chance to open his mouth, the Canadian tugged him down and onto a stool and begun to fuss over him in a way that was almost motherly and completely endearing, removing his glasses and peeling down his lower lid and studying it.

"I'm not sick," he said weakly, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "I … are you okay?"

Matthew stared at him oddly. "Yeah," he said, taking the American's pallid face in between his hands once more and observing him closely. "I … why are _you _worried about _me_? Fuck, Alfred, you look like you're ready to pass out!"

"No, don't worry, I'm fine," he huffed, trying to shake off the other's grasp. Matthew simply replaced his hands, a pained look upon his face. "I … I just …"

"Did someone spike your drink?" he asked, suddenly panicked. His eyes had gone wide. "We can go if you want; anyway that might be better for you, especially if someone slipped something into your drink - who knows what it could have been. God, you're so _white_…" The Canadian whined lightly, sweeping his thumb along the man's cheekbone.

"I'm fine, _I'm fine_," he reiterated urgently, absent-mindedly placing one of his hands over Matthew's cold one. He twined their fingers together. Then, when he focused upon the young man before him, his eyes were sharp and deadly, so much unlike how hazy they had been moments prior. "Listen, in the past couple of months, has there been any strange men approach you? And when I say strange, I mean this guy should be the crypt keeper-strange."

Matthew looked taken aback by the question. For a moment he was thoughtful, keeping his hands placed on either of the man's cheeks, left thumb brushing slowly across his cheekbone in a steady, hesitant caress. Then he shook his head. "No, no one. Why?"

Alfred was quiet for a moment, swallowing thickly against the lump forming in his throat. _What?_ No one had approached him? _He_ hadn't approached him? This just wasn't adding up. Unless He had been following them at some point; possibly that time they had gone to Starbucks in January, or maybe it had been when they had spent an entire afternoon in a used bookstore, on a rainy day in early March, the two of them just curled up amongst the stacks of books, drinking coffee, listening to their respective music sources and reading. The entire time they had been there - all six hours - they had not spoken one single word, but were comfortable enough to know that they could simply enjoy the presence of the other. Honestly, it could have been any time they had gone out. Any damn time, because Alfred knew the Rat knew New York like the back of his palm.

He tightened his grip on Matthew's hand, gaze intense. "Are you _sure_?" he demanded.

"_Yes_, Al," he said, somewhat exasperated-sounding as he tugged over a stool with his foot and sat down upon it, now at eye level with the pasty lawyer, hands not once leaving his face - then again, Alfred wasn't going to let go of him any time soon. "Now. Tell me, what happened? Why did you ask that?" His voice was dripping with desperation, with concern, and Alfred's heart hurt from the sound.

"I just - It's just that …" he fell silent, looking away and staring at the floor as he chewed upon his lower lip. "I've dealt with some creeps through my job and I ran into one of them a little while ago. I just want to make sure you're okay. Please, promise me you'll tell me if something happens, alright Matthew? Please?"

Nodding slowly, the Canadian leant closer, watching him closely through slightly narrowed eyes. "I promise," he said softly - so softly that Alfred didn't hear him; simply read his lips. He heaved a sigh of relief and brought their foreheads together, shutting his eyes and squeezing Matthew's hand one last time, thankfully, before pulling back.

"Thank you," he murmured quietly, more to himself than anything.

Matthew smiled weakly at him before taking his hands off Al's cheeks and letting them rest limply in his lap, still watching him with a sort of nervousness; he was chewing his lower lip like a candy, and when Alfred looked closely, he saw the young man was trembling like a leaf. Guilt nagged at him for scaring him, but he had to, _had to, _make sure he was okay.

His thoughts were cut off when he leant forward. "Well, you're not as pale anymore," Matt said with a light laugh, trying his best to smile. "At least I know you're okay." There was a pause and the Canadian continued to stare at him. "… you're totally sure no one spiked your drink, right?"

Laughter spilled out of Alfred and he shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. "Yes, yes," he smirked. "I'm positive that no one slipped anything into my drink. Happy?"

"Very," Mattie said with a light scowl. Suddenly, he glanced over his shoulder and frowned up at a tall man that stood behind him. Immediately Alfred tensed, glaring at the newcomer, not quite liking how he had sidled up so closely to the Canadian (Alfred? Possessive? _Never_). He was impossibly tall with darkly hued eyes that were somewhat violet in colour, and ashen blonde hair - almost a grayish blonde, really - sat messily atop his head. He was heavy set, but in a muscular way - broad shoulders, a thick torso and strong arms and legs; he easily could have been a football player. Or at least a human Soviet tank. He had a large nose and a bright, small smile. Despite being in a warm club as such, he wore a pale, beige coloured scarf around his neck.

"Would you care to dance, _sweetheart_?" he murmured, voice light and a thick Russian accent lacing his words.

Blushing darkly, Matthew gave him a timid smile and nodded. "Ah, sure. That would be cool," he said with a weak laugh, glancing nervously at Alfred before standing to follow the burly Russian to the dance floor.

Alfred glared daggers after the man; leaning back against the bar with the promise of nuclear warfare in his stance should anything happen to the young Canadian. Or at least a fantastic lawsuit. Then, he realized something that border lined both worrying and absolutely hilarious: the way the man had approached him, the way he called him sweetheart - the Russian probably thought Matthew was, heaven forbid, a girl. A snort escaped the American and he covered his mouth, scanning the dance floor to see where they might have gone. They weren't hanging on the edge of the crowd, but were still somewhat visible - he just needed to know where he had to look in order to find the Canadian.

His stomach coiled into a vicious knot, and he felt positively nauseous with a crippling envy:

The Canadian that he was so fucking enamoured with was pressed flush against the Russian's body, arms reaching back and wrapped around the man's thick neck, a light smirk on his face and allowing the larger man to run his hands all along his sides, down over his front, his hips; allowing the man to touch him wherever he wanted without so much as a word of protest. He rolled his hips and dipped with easy, coy drops that made Alfred's gut plummet.

And to say that the Russian looked about as smug as the cat that killed the canary was an understatement.

All Alfred could do was glare and whine invidiously, spinning the chair away in order to glare at the bartender - the woman from before that Matthew had been flirting up a storm with, as fate decided to have it. He ordered three shots of Bourbon, rubbing at his temple. This was so not fair; he could dance with practically anyone, let just about anyone at all handle and fondle him like it was nobody's business, but for some reason couldn't find it in himself to ask the American for one measly dance?

_Really_?

But then again, he also knew that it was also his own fault because he could damn well have asked the artist to dance by now instead of clinging to the bar as though it were some kind of life preserver.

Draining back the three shots, one glass right after the other without so much as pausing to breathe, he grimaced at the burn and as his head swam slightly, a warm feeling filling him. So much better than the cold sweat from before. So, so much better than the terror that had filled him before. It was something he hated admitting, but he loved the calming effect of alcohol; loved how it relaxed him so easily; loved how it could momentarily make everything around him better. He called back the woman and ordered a glass of rum and coke, with more rum than coke, and sat back with a sigh as he tried to avoid staring out across the dance floor at the two men, feeling nothing more than intense envy. At the same time he felt a comfortable, sated feeling only alcohol or amazing sex could provide. It didn't last long; he was handed his glass by the barista and almost immediately dragged off by his friends to sit in a nearby booth.

Nearly sloshing his drink over himself as he was tugged, he flopped down in a booth and scowled at his friends (as if giving them a dirty look would do any good). Friends whom were all properly drunk by now, even Jeff who was somewhat rosy cheeked from being so well liquored-up - the man, being a spit of a human, had no tolerance to booze.

"So, guess what man," Allan said, leaning forward with a grin on his face. Before Alfred even had a chance to guess what the 'what' might have been, the question was answered for him: "Fredrick is gonna be here in, like, half an hour. Just thought I'd let you know."

"Dude, that's fuckin' A." He centered his gaze on Jeff, who was muttering to himself as he stared at his bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade while Chris just seemed to be utterly fascinated with the way the lights were flickering in the general area of the DJ booth. For a moment the lawyer was just as fascinated and then he shook his head, laughing. "You guys are all loaded, aren't you?"

In response he was given a chorus of cheerful-sounding agreements and he sighed, taking a gulp from his drink before settling back comfortably against the material of the booth, there being more than enough space for him to stretch his legs and lounge upon the purple velvet and velour. The interior of the club was luxurious, and it was a place that obviously catered to those with money - and to say that the four men sat in the booth had money to spare was an understatement. Three floors, and each floor with its own bar and dance space - it truly served the excessively rich and dreadfully lazy, none the less.

Draping his arms across the back of the booth and crossing his left leg over his right one, bouncing his foot lightly in time to the music, he found he was already craving a cigarette. That was the problem with drinking: he always wanted to smoke, too. It was like the two went hand-in-hand. But of course the bars all had that bullshit 'no smoking' rule, and although he would have no problem paying a fine for doing so, something like that wouldn't look good at all when one considered his career. All that law abiding citizen nonsense.

Swirling the ice cubes in his glass around, he had a mouthful of the rum and coke before setting it down, barely listening to the conversation going on between his friends; once again it had reverted to sports and, although he was interested in athletics and had at one point even considered pursuing football as a career, he didn't want to spend his time talking about it when there were other, far more interesting thing to be talking about.

Like the weather.

The weather _always_ made for riveting discussion.

"Oi, Al," Jeff said, leaning forward and staring at the man being addressed with gray-green eyes that were semi-glazed over, "where'd the Ice Queen go?"

Blank-faced and confused, he stared at the Texan, glanced awkwardly out towards the dance floor and then back. "Who?"

"Y'know, pretty blonde bitch you're totally infatuated with that dumped his vodka all over my favourite jeans. Ice Queen."

"Oh. Matthew. Yeah, well, he's out getting fondled by some Commie on yonder dance floor, much to the dismay of me, myself and I."

Before Jeff even had a chance to say anything, Chris and Allan had frozen mid-sentence and were now staring at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Alfred, you …"

"Infatuated?"

"_His _vodka?"

"Guys…" Alfred said, laughing weakly.

"Matthew?"

"_Infatuated?_"

"A guy?"

"Seriously guys, it's not tha-"

"Don't even wanna hear it, man," Allan said, holding up his two hands and shaking his head forcefully as he tried to lean in closer. "Dude, did _not _know you were gay. Why the fuck didn't you say anything? Did you, like, come on to women as some sort of rouse to keep us in the dark about it or something?" He looked slightly unnerved. "Have you and Jeff, like, _hooked up_?"

A look of disgust crossed Alfred's face and a litany of curses escaped him, ending in his forehead coming in contact with the table as Jeff choked on his freshly ordered martini, turning red in the face as Chris slapped him hard on the back.

"You can take that as a very vehement _no_," Jeff said with a laugh once he could breathe again, patting the viciously muttering American on the shoulder; blatantly ignoring how he flinched beneath the gesture that was supposed to be comforting.

Sitting up and running a hand through his hair, he heaved a sigh of frustration, gripping at the roots of his hair as he stared at the table. "No," he snapped. "I'm not gay. I'm far from it; I just happen to like one guy. It does not make me gay and, considering the fact that he gets mistaken for a girl more often than not, I don't know if it even makes me out to me bisexual."

"That's no reason for not telling us," Chris piped up, leaning back against the booth, one arm resting in his lap and the other draped over the back of the seat. "We're your friends, right? Friends tell friends shit."

The New Yorker said nothing; simply glowered at the man across from him for a few moments before turning his gaze to the table. Those were the exact same words - or at least frighteningly similar - Matthew had used when he had been talking to Gilbert at Starbucks, back in January. Friends tell friends shit. He swallowed thickly, feeling his stomach turn slightly; those words were something he should probably go by as well.

_Friends tell friends shit._

Alfred shook his head lightly as though to rid himself of the thoughts before looking across the table at the others. "I-I don't know," he said with a sigh. "I was worried you guys would, well … I 'unno…"

"Stop talking to you?" Chris offered in a softer voice than usual, tilting his head as he watched the man fumbling for words. The other two men sat there watched with a sort of confused interest; both of them knew damn well that neither man could so much as agree toothpick brands let alone have a civil conversation, but here they were now, Chris somewhat reassuring the other, disposition unusually kind and Alfred oddly demure and compliant.

He locked eyes with the other lawyer, glanced away and then nodded meekly with a heavy sigh, letting his arms rest limply at his sides. "Yeah," he murmured softly. "Yeah, I kind of thought you would."

Much to his surprise, the three men burst out laughing to the point that even Chris - the usually stoic, uncaring and nihilistic bastard that he was - was beginning to draw close to crying.

"Wh-what's so funny?" he demanded sharply. "If you're laughing at me, then stop it; it's not fucking funny." Their laughter only grew. Alfred cursed and rubbed his forehead, draining back the rest of his drink with a light grimace and setting the cup back down as he leant back to watch his friends (maybe they really were better friends than he had initially thought them to be) as they tried, but failed miserably, to control the hysterics they had fallen into. It was nice to see he could provide such extended amusement by something as simple as stating what it was he was feeling, about how he expected them to react to his minor sexual confusion.

"Alfred, Alfred, Alfred," Chris said in a scolding manner, wagging his finger lightly as he shook his head, looking somewhat disapproving. "If we haven't ousted Jeff from our group, and he is an unbelievably flaming fuck of an individual, then I highly doubt we would seek a reason to get rid of you. Not yet, at least." He smirked lightly, but the expression lacked its usual venom and was a fraction kinder.

Nodding lightly, he carded his fingers through his hair with a sigh and slumped down a little while Allan flagged over a woman that worked at the bar, ordering a round of drinks - mainly Bacardi and Sour Puss, and a glass of vodka on the rocks for Chris. Because he was a manly man that drank manly man drinks because he needed something to fuel his obscenely high testosterone levels with. Alfred, frankly, was happy with his orange creamsicle-flavoured vodka sub product.

"I guess I'm sort of relieved to hear that," he said with a laugh, smiling brightly as he relaxed against the soft cushions of the seat. "Nice to know you won't be making me walk the plank just yet."

"We can save it for you later on down the road if you want?" Chris offered, coldly polite and Alfred felt entirely at ease once more because the other lawyer was finally acting the way he was supposed to be and not treating the New Yorker across from him like he was human because when he did that Jones felt as though something was desperately wrong. Chris usually treated Alfred as though he were part of some subspecies of human: not worthy for respect, but not so far down on the social ladder that he was worthy of being squished into the sidewalk.

"Fuck you, Chris."

"Up yours, Jones."

The two gave one another a toast in mockery to each other, Chris smirking darkly and Alfred sneering at the slightly younger man.

And once more all felt right in the world.

Now, if he could get Matthew out of the arms of that Commie Rapetruck, then he'd be laughing. He might as well run for mayor of New York City should that happen. In fact, it was the equivalent of riding off into the sunset with the damsel he had saved slung over the saddle in front of him because he was the _goddamn hero._

_**The End**_.

Glancing out across the floor, sipping from his bottle of Bacardi, he propped his cheek in his palm as he scanned the people there dancing, trying to pick Matthew out in the crowd, a disappointed look on his face. Maybe when he found the Canadian he would ask him to dance. It wasn't that hard, really, although it required more balls than what he apparently possessed (besides the two perfectly functioning ones he was currently in possession of). A few little words and that was all it took. So why the fuck couldn't he do it? Why couldn't ask the younger man to dance with him?

A little voice at the back of the head whispered traitorous thoughts and words insinuating incompetence and that he was nothing less than an utter failure and Alfred wondered if he was beginning to catch crazy germs from the artist.

"Hey, Al, is that Matthew? He looks like the blonde we saw you with earlier," Allan asked, setting down his flask of Sour Puss and glancing over to the New Yorker who was off brooding in his own little world.

Jerking slightly, tearing his eyes away from the small patch of floor he had been focusing on before as he contemplated his remaining sanity and self-esteem (the latter of which Matthew had unwittingly decimated over the course of the three hours they had been in the club), Alfred looked over at the Texan and frowned, following with his eyes where the other pointed to. Then his frown only deepened and grew to be concerned, nodding slowly. "Yeah, that's him alright," Jones confirmed, straightening up slightly as he watched the lithe and easy-moving Canadian.

Allan made a humming sound. "He doesn't look too comfortable dancing with that guy," he commented lightly. "You can tell from here just how tense he is."

Focusing a little harder on the dancing male some distance away, he realized Calloway was right, and that Matthew _did _look to be more than a little uncomfortable with his current occupation, or so to speak. Although he moved easily and with what appeared to be a practiced grace and rhythm to the music playing, his eyes were alert and no longer were his arms held back to wrap around the Russian's neck, and it fact it seemed he had inched away from him a little bit. Then he realized that it might have been from the fact that the Russian was kissing at his neck, occasionally nipping at the skin beneath his lips and tongue, a smirk on his face. Alfred's hands clenched tightly in his lap and he fisted them into his jeans, trying to ignore the way his eyes started to burn.

"Yeah, it almost looks like he doesn't want to be there, y'know what I mean?" Jeff piped up, watching as well, something along the lines of concern and interest mingled on his face.

Alfred hummed, glared and then sighed, running a hand through his hair as he blinked rapidly. The center of his chest hurt, his lungs felt tight and his throat burned almost noticed how the Canadian's eyes scanned the area along the bar, lingering where they had previously been seated to. Alfred perked up slightly, leaning back and setting his drink down upon the surface of the table. It was almost as if Matthew were looking for something or someone. From where he was he could see tell that the man was chewing on his lip - something he did only when either deep in thought or sickeningly anxious. Considering the situation, and how his gaze flickered about without ceasing, Alfred realized it was the latter. Something had Matthew worried and be fucked if he didn't know what it was. Suddenly indigo eyes settled upon where he was sat, widened, and then a look of desperation crossed the Canadian's face.

His mouth went dry and he could feel his heart pounding relentlessly against his chest, threatening to bruise the inside of his ribs.

Matthew, much to his surprise, mouthed the word '_please_' and Alfred bit his lower lip, glancing over to the guys.

"You should probably go and rescue him from the evil Russian's clutches," Chris commented in an off-hand sort of way, dipping his finger into his glass of vodka and swirling it around, prodding at the ice cubes.

Looking away from the man across from him, he turned his gaze back onto the Canadian, saw just how desperate, how pathetic, and how unusually vulnerable he looked, and that was it. Without another word to his friends, Alfred was up on his feet and crossing the floor, shoving his way past dancers and pushing them out of the way.

In his haste, he failed to see the satisfied smirks exchanged between Allan, Jeff and Chris - smirks that said that they knew a hell of a lot more than what they let on to.

Nor did he notice the way Matthew smirked up at the Russian, discreetly handing him a twenty in the way one would hand money to close friend that had done them a favour.

Stepping in front of them, he gave a confident yet somewhat shaky grin, grabbing the Canadian by the hand and hauling him away from the ashy-blonde, smirking up at him. "I think I'd like to have a chance to dance before the night's out."

Dark eyes narrowed dangerously and the man sneered. "Very well," he muttered thickly, reluctantly slipping away from a relieved-looking Matthew. Without another word he stalked away, presumably to the bar where Alfred hoped the Commie bastard was going to drown his sorrows with potent amounts of vodka.

Wrapping his arms protectively around the other's waist and tugging him close, in a way that was almost possessive, he brought Matthew flush against the front of his body, secretly delighting at how already-flushed cheeks grew darker; blushing himself at how thin arms snaked up to wrap around his shoulders, spindly fingers trailing along the nape of his neck; one hand sliding down to rest on his chest as fingers curled in upon the material of his shirt.

"Fucking creep," Alfred snarled next to Matthew's ear, blushing as the other forced his body to move in time to the music playing over the speakers.

"I know, eh?" Mattie murmured, scanning the area warily before pressing closer against Alfred, resting his chin on his shoulder, gaze flickering up to his face before turning back to inspecting the crowd as they kept in time to the music. Because of the way they were stood, Alfred couldn't properly see the Canadian's face.

If he could, he would have seen the victorious, gloating smirk he wore and the fact that the grin was being exchanged with the three men remaining at the table just a little way away from them.

Matthew's breath was hot on his neck - too hot. It was impossible to even think. A shiver ran through his body and he pressed even closer than what he thought was possible. He felt so _warm _all of a sudden, with him in his arms, their bodies impossibly close; hips even closer. His pulse was racing. _God_ it felt amazing.

"Thanks."

Glancing down at the other - over the past month, they had both come to the realization that Matthew was not the same height as him but was actually almost three inches shorter - with a confused look, Alfred frowned. "Thanks for what?"

"For coming over and cutting in," came the soft reply he had to strain to hear.

"No problem," Alfred said, drawing away from him with some reluctance as the song slowly turned into another one; that was probably all he wanted, anyway; for him to cut in, get him away from the touchy-feely Russian and then to go back and sit down.

He was startled, however, when Matthew pulled him back closer than before, a deviously charming smirk on his face as he eyed the lawyer with eyes that were dark; darker than usual, dark in a way that made Alfred tremble and feel as though he were dealing with someone that had a side as cold as the Canadian Arctic should he cross his path the wrong way; but also dark in a way that he loved, desired, and fuck it all to hell, in a way that made him smile. Or maybe it was just the alcohol in his system giving him the proverbial gift of liquid courage, but there was something unspoken lurking in their depths and the American felt as though he finally stood a chance.

"Where do you think you're going just yet?" Matthew purred - _purred _for the love of fuck - into his ear, sending a delicious shiver down the American's spine as he ran his hand down over the small of his back, moving it down further to rest on the back of his thigh as the other hand remained stationary on his hip. The Canadian sighed at the touch and smirked, watching the other, waiting with a maddening patience for the answer. "Well?"

"I-I figured you'd only want one dance with me, y'know, just to get you away from him," Alfred murmured into his ear, trying to ignore how Matthew had moved a fraction to the right, how he almost straddled his thigh now.

It wasn't working.

At all.

"You're silly to think something like that," he chuckled lightly, nuzzling his jaw, staring up at him with an amused expression as his fingers doodled inane patterns on his chest that were driving him crazy. "Stay with me for a little while; have some fun - you were the one that brought me here in the first place, telling me I need to get out and live a little. Don't make me do so by _myself_."

Never had the Canadian's logic sounded so damn good.

His grip on the narrow hips in front of him growing even more taut than before, he smirked and gently bit down on the top of his ear and licked along the length of it with a sensual swipe of his tongue, loving how Mattie's breath hitched sharply; how his cheeks reddened and the hand on his chest tightened its grip. "You want me to dance with you?" he murmured, licking at his lips when he realized just how dry they had gone, along with his mouth. He felt the man in his arms tremble slightly; smirked when he gave a singular nod. "Fine, I'll dance with you, and I'll actually show you what it's like to dance with someone that _knows_ how to dance."

Matthew arched a delicate blonde eyebrow. "Oh, is that so?" he demanded with a grin, laughing lightly and tilting his head to the side, coyly running his fingers down along the tendon in his neck, exposing the skin that was there. _Christ_. "Then stop talking and _show me_ already, would you? I don't want to think you're all talk and no action, _Alfred_."

Alfred F. Jones knew a challenge when he heard one, and to hear it coming from the plump, chewed lips of the lithe Canadian he was grinding against, he was more than pleased. This was the sort of challenge he liked; the sort he craved - and to be presented the opportunity by Matthew, _with_ Matthew?

Fuck him sideways if he didn't take advantage of it whatever way he could.

And then the Canadian dipped his body in a way that could only be described as purely erotic, hands ghosting all along Alfred's body as he dragged himself upwards once more, moving at a torturously slow pace that nearly had him whining pathetically. Lips curled up into a sinuous smirk and then he twisted around to press his sweaty back against Alfred's chest, placing the man's hands on his thighs in a spot that was dangerously close to his groin as he pressed back against him. One hand reached back around and tangled in with the hairs at the nape of his neck while the other free hand rested over one of Alfred's. Letting his head rest back against Al's shoulder, Mattie smirked up at him, turning his face a little, lips just brushing against the lawyer's neck.

The lawyer liked to think that the Albertan had no idea what he was doing to him, but from the sharp look in his eyes, he knew he was anything but oblivious to the way the other was reacting to his lack of inhibitions.

Turning his face to the man's neck, Alfred pressed his lips along his skin without even thinking, smirking when he felt the pulse beneath his lips jump erratically. He flushed when he realized just what he was doing, but then one look at Matthew's face told him the artist was enjoying this particular treatment; eyes were partially lidded, his cheeks were flushed and there was a small smile on his face. So he simply pressed his lips back to where they were before, one hand moving from his thigh to boldly slide up to his stomach, slipping up under his shirt to gently run his fingers along soft, sweat-dampened skin; loving how the other gasped and pressed back harder against him.

Then Matthew gave another coy drop, rolling his hips as he went and bringing himself back up, the entire time keeping his body pressed firmly against Alfred and arching his back as he moved. He brought Alfred's hands along with him, letting them rest once more idle on his thigh and then allowing the other one to move back to his abdomen.

By now all Alfred was capable of doing was making a desperate noise and shutting his eyes. The sensation of having the younger man pressing against his body felt incredible.

Matthew knew exactly what he was doing, and fucking hell he was good at it.

He didn't know how long they stayed there on the floor, pressed together the way they were as they danced, laughing and touching one another coyly, but it had to be at least an hour before either of them thought of leaving to go sit, and even then it was somewhat reluctant; the only reason Alfred dragged themselves away from the dance floor was for the simple fact that the urge to bring Matthew somewhere discreet, press him up against a wall and have his way with him was really beginning to sound like a viable option.

However, he noticed something strange; not once did the Russian come back to ask Matthew to dance, even though he had seen him lurking by several times, dancing with other women and strangely enough showing absolutely no interest in the young man. And his friend hadn't seemed at all alarmed upon seeing him near-by, either. Suspicions were raised, and he couldn't help but wonder if that the entire thing had been set up; Matthew seemed to know a lot of people - maybe the Russian was one of them?

A glance down at the man leaning against him, breathing heavily and smiling stupidly, and he wondered if it was simply the Canadian's way of getting them dancing without directly asking.

Conniving little fox.

Practically collapsing back into the booth, Matthew flopping in behind him with a prolonged groan of exhaustion, Alfred slumped against the back of the seat, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, trying to push it back out of his face. He was panting, as was the other man, and he did not like how the guys were grinning at him.

"You want something to drink?" Alfred asked as the other sat up with another groan, rubbing the nape of his neck as he leant against the table. The guys were still grinning at him, and then he noticed with some surprise that Fredrick was there, having completely forgotten that Allan had told him the man from New Brunswick was going to be there.

Glancing up from the table and to the sweaty American, Matt gave him a tiny smile. "That would be wonderful," he chirped breathlessly. "Thanks!"

"No problem," he said with a smile, glancing across the table and finding that he was being stared down by the others.

Chris mouthed the word '_whipped_' and Alfred's face turned scarlet.

'_Fuck you_,' Alfred mouthed back at him, flipping him off with a bright smile.

"Hold off on the drinks for a moment," Fredrick said suddenly, a light French accent adorning his speech, prompting the two on the other side of the circular booth to glance up and stare at the other Canadian. Matthew arched an eyebrow while Alfred gave his friend a displeased look. Fredrick peered at the young man across from him with a look of interest. "So you're Matthew, hm? What part of Canada are you from?"

Matthew blinked. "I'm from just outside of Grand Prairie, Alberta. Why?"

"Damn," he said with a laugh. "I was hoping you'd be another Maritimer; I'm from Moncton. Fredrick DuPont." He extended his hand.

Tired indigo eyes lit up for a moment and he shook Fredrick's hand. "Cool shit, bro," Matt said.

"Anyway, I want to see if you're at-all worthy of existing," Fredrick rambled animatedly. "So, we're having a shot contest. Just me and you, right now. Sixteen shots each, a variety but we have to have the same ones in the same order. First one to pass out or throw up like a little pussy bitch is deemed the Ultimate Loser. How does that sound to you?"

Mutely begging Matthew to decline, Alfred massaged at his temples; Fredrick had an unfair advantage over his friend - Matt had alcohol in his system already, and was probably only a quarter sober as it. Another few shots and he was bound to be drunk. While he knew the young man had a tolerance to booze, he didn't know how good it was; they had drank together on occasion, but even then it hadn't been very much (except for that one time they got completely shattered and set fire to the ends of their hair because it was an awesome idea at the time). And frankly, Fredrick was twice the size of him in terms of build and weight. The Acadian would have no problem in holding his liquor against the waif-like man across from him.

"You're on," Matthew said with a smirk, grinning coldly as he leant backwards, expression haughty and self-assured. "And the last two shots should be Russian Prince for the simple fact that, frankly, if you're not man enough to drink back two of those, I highly doubt you're man enough to win a shot contest against a tiny little thing like me."

It took everything in his body to keep from slamming his head down against the table in exasperation.

Of course he would agree to a contest he held no hope in winning.

Of _course._

Waving a barista over with a smirk on his face, Fredrick grinned up at the woman. "Two rounds of sixteen shots, please," he ordered cheerfully. "Three Jell-O shots, three .46 Magnums, one Captain on Acid, a Bin Laden for the hell of it, one High-Octane Black Russian, two Jack the Rippers and two Holy Fucks, one Prairie Fire and two shots of straight Russian Prince, please and thank you."

Alfred blanched and even Chris looked slightly sick. The amount of alcohol in each shot was almost brutal - a Russian Prince was a hundred proof in itself. If they made it past the Bin Laden and Prairie Fire without face-planting directly into the table, they were going to be golden for the rest of it.

"You guys are going to kill yourselves, you know that, right?" Jeff demanded flatly, looking between the two smirking Canadians that were glaring at one another as though their lives (and masculinity) depended on it.

"Yeah, well, sometimes shit happens," said Fredrick.

"And sometimes the shit hits the fan," Matthew added with a shrug of nonchalance.

"Hopefully your health insurance covers stomach-pumping," Allan said in a dry voice, shaking his head ruefully at the two as they waited for their shots to arrive. "Because the two of you are beyond fucked."

Chris laughed while Alfred grimaced at the thought. "I'm placing my bets now," Chris said gruffly as he stretched, extracting a wallet from the inside of his shirt. "A hundred bucks says neither of them finishes their shots."

"I'll raise that to two hundred," Allan said, tossing two hundred dollar bills on top of the two fifties Chris had set down once he managed to dig out his own wallet from his back pocket.

"Fuck y'alls, I'm adding in a hundred as well," Jeff said, counting out some tens and twenties to set down on the growing pot of cash. An impressive pool already. "You adding in anything, Al?"

Alfred considered his options for a moment and then smirked. "I'll bet two hundred as well," he said, pulling his wallet from the inside of his sweater, careful to keep the packet of cocaine from falling out. He browsed through it for a moment and then set down a wad of twenties, replacing the wallet and leaning back, trying his best to ignore the dirty looks they were all receiving from Matthew and Fredrick.

"And what if one of us _does _finish all the shots?" Matthew snapped icily, giving them all a cold, disapproving look as if to say he was disappointed in the collective lack of faith the Americans had in the two Canadians. "Then what'll you do with the money?"

"Use it to pay for the hospital having to pump your stomach?" Chris offered in a flat voice, smirking at how he received a scowl and a middle finger in response to his pessimism.

The conversation immediately stopped when the barista arrived with two platters of shots, setting them down on the table with a sceptical look on her narrow face. "The washroom is only a little way away from here should either of you gentlemen feel the need to vomit everywhere. Have fun."

Matthew and Fredrick gave one another a long, steely look before they both straightened up and started sorting out the drinks, lining them up neatly and in the order they would drink them, leaving the High-Octane Black Russian and the shots of Russian Prince for the very end.

"Object being who can drink them all the fastest?" Matthew inquired as he set his hands down on the table, eyeing the Jell-O shots with a grin on his face.

Fredrick thought for a moment, and then nodded. "First off, have you already had any drinks?" he asked. "I've had three beers and a small shot of Smirnoff vodka."

"Yeah; two glasses of Skyy vodka, one straight and one mixed with orange juice, and a few shots of whiskey," Matthew said, propping his chin in his hand. "But I'm not feeling too bad, so I don't think you have that much of an advantage over me at the moment. You ready to start?"

"Whenever you are, man," the Acadian said with a grin. The two of them picked up the first shot - a lime green Jell-O shooter - toasted one another with mirror-like smiles and then they started draining back the shots, one after the other with minimal time in between them.

Jell-O shots done, the two moved onto the .46 Magnums, which Matthew could barely choke back considering the melange of liquor in the little glass he held in his hand. Fredrick, however, ploughed through them with little difficulty, moving onto Captain on Acid just as Matthew was finishing his second shot of Magnum.

"Looks like someone's all talk," Fredrick jeered as he drained back the mix with nothing more than a little grimace, shuddering slightly.

"Fuck you, jackass," was the reply accompanied by a bright smile as he choked back the remaining Magnum and downed the Captain in a rapid succession, catching back up to the other Canadian as though he hadn't been lagging behind at all.

Pushing the empty glasses aside, they both grabbed for their Bin Laden's, both of them making faces as they downed them easily despite the apparent struggle it was to handle the sudden jump in alcohol percentage; it was startling and the booze burnt almost painfully in comparison to the last, almost fruity, concoction they had consumed.

Alfred watched on with mild concern as they continued to practically inhale the shots one right after the other with minimal pauses in between each drink. Matthew's cheeks were rosy by the time they got to the Holy Fuck shots, and they both quickly learned why they were called what they were.

Slamming down his shot glass and balking, retching slightly as he pulled away after the first one, Fredrick looked somewhat sick as he covered his mouth. "Jesus fucking Christ," he croaked out, eyes visibly watering as he reached shakily for the other one. Matthew merely whined when he had slammed his own down, swaying slightly and quickly shaking his head as though he were trying to clear off a fog of sorts before he drank back the other one, edging ahead of Fredrick as he still attempted to recover from the drink he had just taken.

"Now look who's all talk," Matthew snickered, swaying slightly and pushing his hair back out of the way as he reached for the Prairie Fire.

By now, Alfred could tell the two men were already damn good and drunk - Fredrick was steadily wobbling in his spot, taking long, steady blinks while Matthew swayed, eyes glazed and his coordination slowly going out the window. He would reach for a glass, miss, and then grasp for it again several times before being able to pick it up. However, Fredrick looked sick and he knew it was the Jell-O shooters that had done it to him, right off the bat, combined with other drinks; the Acadian was dreadful when it came to holding his liquor after having successive shots of the substance, and then to follow them up with ones that were almost forty percent alcohol?

Fredrick was damn well signing his death certificate at this rate.

Matthew, on the other hand, seemed to be holding out quite a bit better than the other man who had fallen two shots behind.

Suddenly the Canadian dropped his shot glass, recoiling with wide eyes and his hands over his mouth, making a choked whine as he swallowed back the mixture of Tequila and Tabasco sauce. His eyes streamed and he shut them, squirming, Adam's apple bobbing steadily as he swallowed repeatedly.

Eyeing his reaction carefully, Fredrick hesitated before picking up the Prairie Fire, fingers trembling as he set them down around the small glass of Imminent Death that lay before him. He picked it up, took a small sip instead of slamming it down, and then outright gagged, shoving it down and away.

"I can't do that one," he said, shaking his head. "I'll throw up if I do, for the love of fuck."

"Do you give up then?" Matthew panted, wiping at the corners of his mouth, smirking at the other, expression glassy.

Fredrick seemed to wither slightly, looked away and, steeling himself; he grabbed the rest of the Prairie Fire and downed it. Slamming down the glass he bent forward, hand over his mouth and one on his abdomen. He stayed there for a moment, and the longer he was down, the smugger the expression on the other's face grew. When he sat back up, his face was a white-green sort of colour, almost gray, and then he roughly shoved past the others, bolting from the table and making a beeline for the bathroom.

"Bitch can't hold his liq-_uor_," Matthew declared in a sing-song voice, draining back his High-Octane Black Russian and slamming down the glass, hand going to cover his mouth.

"Wow," Chris said, eyes widening. "You're half the size of him and you just drank him under the table. I … I'm impressed."

Jeff inched forward, watching the man as he pushed aside the margarita he had ordered while they had been chugging down their drinks. "How the fuck did you manage that? I can drink, like, a quarter of that and I end up blasted."

"I'm a quarter Ukrainian, a quarter French, half Irish and I used to binge drink on the weekends when I was sixteen up until I turned eighteen. I then resumed binging when I was twenty. My blood is made of alcohol," he said coolly. With a languid ease reserved for the rightfully arrogant the Canadian reached for the other's three remaining shots and pulled them towards him, picking up the other High-Octane and downing it easily although he looked ready to cry from the sheer agony of the alcohol.

"Hey, you don't need to finish them," Alfred said worriedly, placing a hand on his friend's bicep.

In response, Matthew flashed him a heated look. "Please, I totally had my masculinity challenged by all of you," he said smoothly, picking up a Russian Prince and shooting it back, slamming the small crystal glass down on the table's surface a little harder than intended as he grimaced, cursing beneath his breath. It was like drinking straight ethanol. "I'm going t'finish off _all _these shots just t'piss you all off 'n' take your money, got it?" And then he took his last shot of straight vodka and drained it back, sliding the glass away from him as he made a move for the remaining two glasses. He blinked lazily. "_Wow._"

Was it just him, or did Matt seem even just the slightest bit drunker than before he had taken those two shots?

By the time he had the third shot down, he was outright swaying and then when the fourth and final one was down, he slumped a little, feebly shoving away the empty glass and rubbing at his face. All the shots had been consumed, and frankly, Matthew looked about as pleased as hell, if not a little white in the face.

"I am _amazing,_" he said thickly, words stringing themselves together as he slurred dangerously while trying to upright himself. "Betchain't ever seen that." He gave a watery giggle.

The other had returned from the bathroom in time to see the last drink being consumed. "D-Did you actually just finish everything that was left?" he asked weakly, sinking down in his seat and rubbing at his temple. His gaze was vapid and his cheeks were rosy - the man wasn't nearly as inebriated as the twenty-one-year-old. Matthew was positively pickled.

"Yup," he mumbled, giving a cocky grin. Then, he held out his hand. "I'll take m'money, th'nks," he slurred, trying to sit up - only to slide down further in his spot. He laughed lightly as the money was begrudgingly slapped into his palm by Allan. If that didn't taste like sweet victory, nothing would. Not even bothering to count what was there, he slipped it into his pocket and let his head flop back, staring blankly around him. Apparently, he was fascinated by the ceiling tiles overhead, or maybe it was the fans spinning overhead that had captured his attention, completely enrapturing him.

"You a'ight?" Al asked him softly, placing a hand on his thigh and peering at him closely.

Matthew turned his head and stared at the lawyer for a long moment, expression confused and his eyes cloudy; completely uncomprehending. Then he grinned stupidly once the words finally seemed to register with his liquor-addled mind. "'M best kind," he said happily, flopping over slightly and resting his head on Alfred's shoulder for a moment. "Mm, I wanna go back 'n dance. Wanna? Cause y'know we, like, totally should. Y'know."

"How about no?" he shot back, forcing the artist to remain sitting upright. "You're way too drunk for shit right now."

"Hn, says you," he retorted, poking Alfred firmly in the center of his chest. He stared up at the man with glazed-over eyes, paused for a moment and then snickered, leaning forward and resting against him. "_Never_ too drunk t'dance."

Alfred gave a dry laugh. "Oh, I'm not too sure about that," he said, beckoning a barista over and ordering a bottle of water for the Canadian.

Snuffing through his nose and stretching, Matthew rested forward against the table, looking around him with bleary eyes. He watched the guys was they talked. Then he glanced back over at Alfred. "Are you su-"

"Yes. I'm sure."

"Like, I mean to-"

"Totally positive. Yep."

Matthew puffed out his cheeks and glared, prompting laughter from the other.

"Don't give me that look," he said lightly, taking the bottle of water with a smile of thanks and handing it to Matthew. "Do me a favour and drink some of this, would you? It'll keep you from completely throwing up in the back of the cab." Then he paused, retracting the hand that held it out and uncapping it, deciding that he probably was not the best candidate for trying to open a bottle.

Staring at it as though he were contemplating the existence of the bottle, he shrugged lightly and drank some water back, much to Alfred's imminent relief; he had been expecting the Canadian to look at the bottle and shove it back at him, saying 'hell to the no'. Or to get it dumped all over him.

"Y'know wha's awesome?" he slurred, setting down the bottle and staring out across the dance floor as he spoke. "Th'fact that I have t', like, work at eight this morning. 'N I say this morning cause it's, like, two o'clock already and it would totally make no sense to say tomorrow morning when tomorrow s'actually today, ammirite?"

For a moment, the men in the booth just sat there staring at him, expressions filled with one similar emotion: disbelief.

"You … you have to _work _in six hours?" Alfred asked, shocked.

"Yep. S'awesome."

"Matthew, my friend - and after tonight I call you that with a firm conviction - you are the ultimate trooper if you go in to work tomorrow and last for however long you're working," Allan said, reaching across the table and patting him firmly on the shoulder. "How long are you going to be working?"

"Nine hours, almost ten," he chirped with a cheerful giggle, sipping the water. "Yeah, ten hours actually. Eight t'six."

The five men sat there at the table with him just looked at him, nothing registering on their faces other than pure pity.

"That … that's hurtin', man," Jeff whined, reaching across and petting his hand sympathetically. "I _never_ want to feel your pain."

"So, I think I'm going to take you _home_ now," Alfred said in a voice that was an octave higher than usual. "Otherwise you'll probably still be drunk when you wake up in the morning." Then he paused, thinking about it as he helped the giggling Canadian stand, birdlike hands latching onto the material of his t-shirt as he tried to steady his viciously wobbling legs. "Actually, you'll probably wake up drunk all the same. So c'mon."

Instead of receiving any form of protest, all Alfred got was a noncommittal hum of agreement, Matt stretching lazily as Alfred pulled his sweater over his own shoulders. His body felt tacky, sticky, from how much he had sweated while they had been dancing. A glance to Matthew and he wondered just how gross the other felt - and wondered how disgusting he would be feeling in the morning.

Poor bastard.

Bidding a good night and fare thee well to his friends - and it went without saying that they were also Matthew's new-found admirers - he slipped an arm around his slender waist and held the young man as close as he possibly could.

Only because he was cripplingly drunk and would most likely fall should Alfred let go of him.

Totally not because he wanted to hold him and this was the perfect time for him to do so.

The hell kind of planet did you come from, thinking it was something like that?

Laughing a little as he stumbled when they stepped out of the sickeningly warm club and out into the cool April night, Matthew stretched again and staggered. There was a look of confusion on his graceful features - graceful in appearance while his body did anything but comply - and then he hummed before wrapping his arms around Alfred's abdomen and letting his head just flop down upon his shoulder. Shutting his eyes against the lights of the different bar signs, the area lit up like noon, he simply held onto the lawyer and gave a soft sigh, nuzzling into the broad shoulder before him.

Idly carding his fingers through his hair, Alfred looked down at the inebriated Albertan and chuckled softly, resting his head atop the other's as he lazily hailed a cab.

"You gonna be a'ight for a cab ride?" he asked softly as watched the canary yellow vehicle pull up alongside them.

There was a delay before he received a reply. After a moment and when he gave the other's shoulder a gentle squeeze, Matthew finally glanced up at him and nodded slowly. "I should b'fine," he murmured, snuggling in as close as he could get to the other's sturdy torso. "I've been worse th'n this."

Alfred didn't even want to consider the possibility of that.

Ushering him into the back of the cab and strapping his seat belt across him, he sighed and did the same for himself, watching as the younger man turned sideways in his spot and curled inwards, knees drawn to his chest. A fond smile touched his lips and he reached out, brushing a loop of curling hair from his cheek.

"If 'nyone pukes in the vehicle, I'm making the both o' ye get out and walk back, got it?" the cabbie snapped from the front seat, glaring at them in the rear view mirror.

Laughing and shaking his head slightly, he stretched and draped his arms along the back of the seat. "Don't worry, no one's going to be throwing up until at least tomorrow morning once the hangover kicks in," Alfred assured the unamused cabbie. He gave the man Matthew's address, glancing over at the Canadian every now and again once they pulled away from the curb; unable to keep the smile from his face as he watched the other stare out the window, eyes darting from one spot of the window to another as Manhattan flew past them.

Given the lateness of the hour, the streets were empty for the most part and they only came across maybe five other vehicles in the entirety of the ride in the backseat of the cab. All either of them could smell was chilli dogs, those cheap little air freshener tags that were shaped like pine trees (mass-produced to bring the forest into the vehicle) and something that was similar to urine. If anything made either of them sick, it wouldn't be the booze but the stench of the taxi. And that was, according to his friends, how one could tell a NYC taxi from a plain old taxi - the smell of them was different. They even _felt _gritty, just like the metropolis they serviced twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

When the car pulled up outside of Matthew's place, Alfred leant out towards the front. "I'm going to bring him up, and then I'll be right back," he said. A glance to the clock on the dashboard told him it was already two-thirty in the morning.

"I'm leavin' the meter runnin'," the cabbie grunted, sticking a cigarette in his mouth and rolling down the window.

"No problem," Alfred said with a begrudging sigh (he had been expecting that), pulling away and gently shaking Matthew until the younger man turned to face him.

He seemed to have nodded off for a few minutes, face pressed to the cool glass of his window; his left cheek, the one that had obviously been resting on the glass, was flushed a bright shade of carmine, and there were little markings along his skin where his hair had been plastered between it and the window. "Hn?"

Laughter spilled out of him at just how inebriated and tired the other was and, taking his hand as he opened the backdoor, Alfred carefully pulled Matthew out of the backseat, swiftly moving to catch the younger man as his knees buckled. A weak giggle left him. So bloody drunk.

Then he paused; he had actually said that in his head with a goddamn British accent. Face going blank, he looked to the ground, down the road, back to the ground and finally to Matthew before shaking his head to rid himself of the voice that sounded frighteningly pompous; just like his brother.

Go figure.

"C'mon, Mattie," Alfred murmured, sliding an arm around a still too-thin waist (the Canadian objected to eating three or four meals at McDonalds, so how else was he supposed to gain weight?) to help keep him upright. All that happened in response was Matthew simply flopping against him, one hand going to the American's broad chest while his other arm rested loosely around his waist. Unsure of how he managed it, he started to make the younger man walk alongside him, glancing down occasionally as though to make sure he was still completely conscious, given his body felt somewhat limp. "Let's get you inside."

"M'kaaay," he slurred, tucking his face into the crook of Alfred's neck and sighing, gently nuzzling the skin there and giggling softly as he did, fingers doodling little circles on his torso.

Face flushing and his breath hitching treasonously, the man counted backwards from fifteen, bit his lip and inhaled a lungful of cool air and held it in until his chest felt as though it were preparing to explode. "Yup. You should go to bed now. Cause you have to be up in four hours or so for work, which totally isn't good I mean really Mattie. You should have at least told me you were working tomorrow cause then we wouldn't have stayed as late as we did and I totally wouldn't have let you drink even a, like, quarter of what you did and, well. Yeah."

"Oh shu'up 'n help me get'n," Matthew grumbled, burying his face fully in the man's shoulder. "M a big boy. I can drink s'much s'I want, go'it?"

"You're incoherent," Al muttered into his ear, laughing lightly, briefly letting go of his waist once they got to the stairs. As he fished the house keys from the pocket of his sweater, Al stood at the very top stairs, blocking the way down should Matthew lose his balance and fall over - which would be horrible, to say the very least.

"Your mom's inc'herent," he grumbled, letting out a slew of vile curses when he fumbled with the keys, nearly dropping them several times before securing a proper grasp on them. Then he paused, stared at the doorknob with an odd look on his face, looked to the keys he held and then offered the set to Alfred, looking a little more pathetic than usual. "C'n you open't?"

Alfred couldn't help but laugh at just how drunk the younger man was. "Sure thing," he said, gingerly taking the key ring from Mattie and stepping around him, sliding it into the lock. It clicked open but he didn't move out of the way when he was finished; voice locked in his throat, eyes widening slowly and his body going rigid all over. His mouth was bone dry and all he could wonder was '_is this actually happening right now?_'

"S'wrong?" Matthew murmured softly into his ear, adjusting his grip on the man's mid-section. Alfred desperately tried to ignore the fact that he had plastered himself to his back; tried to ignore how sweet and warm the artist's breath was on his ear; tried to ignore how firm and perfect the other felt pressed against him from behind.

"N-N-Nothing," he choked out, somehow. Oh God Matthew was holding him. _Matthew was fucking holding him. _But, he was also piss-loaded so therefore everything was cancelled out and had no meaning.

"Oh. 'Kay. Hn. You … you should … stay with me tonight."

Alfred nearly dropped the keys he held and inhaled sharply. "I … I sh-should _what_?" he demanded weakly, feeling his knees give out slightly. His hand shot out and grasped the doorframe as though to steady himself, to keep from falling.

He was doodling those blasted circles on his chest, but this time one of his hands had moved to settle on the lower part of his abdomen, a finger slipped under the waistband of his jeans to hook in upon the material. Alfred's breath hitched dangerously and he shut his eyes, gnawing upon his lower lip almost painfully. "You should stay with me," he repeated, voice a soft slur, and managing to keep a surprising amount of sensuality to it despite his state. "I know y'want me, Al; 'M not dumb."

Rendered speechless, all he could do was open and close his mouth uselessly, trying to ignore how the circles continued and he batted Matthew's hand away as it tried to travel a little further downwards than to settle at just the hem of his pants. "I … you … ah, well …"

"Don't play stupid, either," came the low mutter. Matthew kissed Alfred's neck lightly, nuzzling his jaw before pressing another kiss there. God, his face was on fucking fire. And that wasn't all that was warming up, either. "Stay with me; I won't disappoint you." The words were spoken with a sharp conviction, and he knew there was no damn way he would be disappointed.

But there was also no way he was staying. "No, Mattie. Just look at yourself," he said weakly, biting his lower lip and staring blankly at the wall in front of him, telling himself that restraint was totally the coolest thing ever. "You're _how_ drunk right about now? Precisely. I … you … _we_ cannot do this when you're like that. I won't let it happen."

"Why not?" he whined, stepping around Alfred and pressing up against his front, staring at him with pleading, glazed eyes. Nimble hands ran down over his chest, up along his sides, slipping up and under the material of his shirt; deft fingers kneaded at the firm muscles of his back, moved around to the front and then trailed down along his abdomen once more. He inched forward, no doubt prepared to kiss the American senseless to get his way and to get the man in his bed, but Al jerked his head away, shaking it sadly and feeling all sorts of … _frustration _beginning to build up.

"As tempting as the thought of bringing you in there, pushing you down on the bed and fucking you until you're senseless and moaning my name may be," Alfred growled, not at all helping his cause, "I'm not going to do something like that to you when you're absolutely loaded."

"But what if I _want_ you t'do that t'me?" Matthew purred saucily, slipping his knee between Al's legs and pressing it _upwards_. The other bit back a moan, feeling his eyes water and the beautiful state of control he had a leash on slowly slide out of his grasp. "What if I _want _you to push me down on the mattress, fuck me senseless, make me scream your name; make me scream it like it's the only word I've ever known?" His breath was hot on the lawyer's neck and he kept moving his knee against Alfred's groin, his lips quirking into a knowing smirk when a strangled moan finally escaped the other's lips. "What if I want you t'do that t'me and _more_?"

"T-Then too fucking bad," Alfred gasped, looking anywhere but to the man in front of him. "I'd rather our first time together to be when you're sober and capable of _remembering_ it."

At this, Matthew stilled, eyes widening a fraction and the hands on his sides loosening and ceasing in their caressing movements. He pulled back for a moment, stared at the ground, then nodded slowly. A sigh of relief left the other and he pulled back slightly as well, dislodging the maddening knee between his thighs.

"I … Al, I …" He stared at the man with a pleading gaze.

Alfred shook his head, knowing exactly what it was he wanted to say - something he had been waiting months to hear, but completely unsure if he would ever hear it. But, now that he knew, he could wait just a little while longer. "Tell me some other time," he murmured, slipping the keys back into Matt's hand, smiling softly. "Tell me when you'll remember that, as well. Now go and get some sleep; I'll call you when I get up in the morning so I can laugh at how drunk you'll still be."

"O-Okay," he said quietly, wringing his hands once he had slipped the keys into his pocket. "Ah, g-goodnight, Alfred…" He hesitated a moment, glanced up at the American and then moved quickly, leaning across the space and pressing his lips to his cheek in a nervous, but firm kiss.

And then he ducked into his apartment, shut the door and Alfred was stood there, eyes wide and fingers pressed to the spot Matthew had kissed him.

Then it hit him in the same way a runaway truck would hit a duck crossing the road.

_Matthew kissed him._

Laughing, running his hands through his hair and staring at the door, Alfred felt light-headed. And amazing. And wonderful. And incredible. And every other word that could describe those words he had used.

_Matthew had actually kissed him._

But that still didn't help the nearly painful boner he had, nor did it console him when he realized that Matthew would not remember any of this the next morning.

* * *

So it's good I broke this up into two chapters, because I blocked SO HARD partway through this chapter. Like it hurt. So much. AND YOU ALL THOUGHT THIS WAS GOING TO BECOME A RUSCAN. AHAHAHA. I LOVE POSTING SPOILERS. SO MUCH. It was just Matthew's way of getting Alfred to dance with him. And were the other guys in on it? Yes, yes they were. OH. And Alfred's drug dealer is another OC I've been working on lately.

AND HERE'S A CHAPTER THAT'S ALMOST 15K AND IT'S 22 PAGES. HAPPY DAYS EVERYONE. -LOVES ON-

Thanks for so much for all the reviews, everyone! :'D -lovelovelove-


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINETEEN.**

They had been planning it for weeks now. It was to be the magnum opus of their existence, the pinnacle of everything, both as individuals and a collective whole. They had discussed it during the winter after the drive they had gone on - when they realized that they could function together in the same vicinity without Matthew wanting to turn to homicide as a means for stress relief and/or anger management - and since then, the subject had been since brought up several times.

Indeed, it had been discussed several times alone throughout the past week or two and now that the proverbial weekend was upon them and neither of them were working, the plan was finally being put in action.

"Hey, Mattie, where the fuck is my messenger bag?"

"Maybe it's shoved up your ass, where your pompous little head is all the time."

"Fuck you, you goddamn slag, that was totally uncalled for."

"Well, your face is uncalled for."

"Bend over and _suck _it. Now tell me where the fuck you're keeping my messenger bag hostage, you batshit Canuck."

They were going on a miniature road trip.

In case you couldn't tell.

"Matthew fucking Williams, I still cannot find my goddamn messenger bag."

"I'm sorry but it's not _my _goddamn problem that you're incompetent with 90% of the things that you do."

A high-pitched whine accompanied by the childish stomping of a size eleven foot.

"For the love of- did you check your office, perchance?"

"Y'know, I never really thought of that. Let me go check…"

Mere moments later, Alfred emerged with a bright expression on his face. In his hand he held a gray messenger bag with a Swiss Army logo on the front flap. The long shoulder strap dragged along the ground, bouncing slightly from the jaunty steps the American took. "Hey Mattie! I found my bag in my office!"

It took every modicum of self-restraint in the Canadian's body to keep himself from giving Alfred a smack like no other - and it would be one right in the kisser.

And not the kind of smack across the kisser he would like, either.

Hefting up his own messenger bag, a dark brown bag made of a soft material with more pockets than what one would normally be able to figure out what to do with, he draped it over his shoulder and rolled his eyes, muttering darkly beneath his breath as he shoved on his sneakers. Deciding to ignore the passive-aggressing grumblings of the younger man, Alfred simply ruffled his already-messy hair and had to practically dance around him as a swipe was made towards his side. Had contact been made, regarding the force behind the swing of a tightly-clenched fist that the lawyer damn well knew was the host of one nasty right-hook, there probably would have been a bruise there the size of Rhode Island and would have left him about as tender as a chunk of marinated meat.

"Someone's feeling a little more aggressive than usual," Alfred teased, pinching his cheek and tugging on it, once again ducking to avoid being slapped. "Feisty little bastard. I like it."

"Shut up, Alfred," Matthew whined, finally landing a smack on his bicep. "I'm just excited, okay? I want to get out of here as soon as possible, but it's taking you for-fucking-ever to get your goddamn shit together because you're about as lazy and absent-minded as I don't even know what. Do you have any idea how frustrating that is? We _said _we would be gone by eight this morning. Look at the time now - it's eight thirty. If it weren't for you saying last night, 'oh, I know where everything is, derp derp, it'll take no time' and me being _stupid_ enough to believe you, then we'd be fucking gone already!"

Blinking slowly several times, Alfred rocked back and forth on his heels and nodded awkwardly. After the unexpected outburst from the other, he didn't quite know what to say other than 'ouch'. Well that and it kind of made him want to cry a little, considering the young man could go from absolutely vicious to wonderfully pliable in a matter of seconds. "Feel better now that that's off your chest?"

Matthew huffed, turning on his heel and stomping towards the door to Al's condo. "Quite."

"Well, at least the Escalade's packed," he said weakly, making sure he had his house keys and his iPod as he followed his friend out through the door once he had set the alarms and made sure Oreo was well fed - even though they were only going to be gone overnight, he still didn't want to risk the poor dear running out of food and/or water before he returned.

Trailing behind the Canadian like a lost puppy, Alfred had to resist the urge to grab onto the back of his friend's shirt to make him wait up, because he was walking too fast, because he didn't want to be the one left behind.

(_And Alfred had been right, considering Matthew did not remember one single thing that had happened after the shot contest, entitling him to experience first-hand the most frustrating thing in the world. Matthew had asked him, several times - '_What happened after I won? Where did that five hundred dollars come from? How did I get home, anyway? Did you actually bring me right to my door?_' - but he could not find it in himself to tell Matthew just what had happened between them; couldn't tell him about he had tried to seduce him; couldn't tell him about that tiny, simple goodnight kiss on the cheek he had given that had shattered his heart and melted it down all at once._

_But that was all totally fine, especially the attempt-at-seduction part of it, considering Alfred had nearly worked himself to the point of carpal tunnel syndrome._

_Or at least he told himself that it was all fine, but over the past week he had been constantly catching himself staring at the other and sighing with something akin to longing when he wasn't aware of it; constantly catching himself walking, sitting, leaning closer to the other when he didn't quite notice it right away. It was maddening in a way because he was acting as though he had never experienced frustration or longing before_.)

Sliding into the elevator and leaning back against the wall, he glanced over to Matthew and then lightly shoved the side of his head, earning another grumble. "Take your medication with you?" he asked softly.

Instead of a snarky reply, which was what he had been expecting, all he got was a hum of acknowledgement. "I got my Valium in the front pouch," he said quietly, "and I already took one before I came over."

A light smile settling upon his lips, Alfred sighed. "Good. And I'll remind you when you have to take your next pill, alright?" Then he paused. "Actually, we can stop for lunch around one, so you can take it then. Sound good?"

Laughing softly, Matthew ducked his head and then shook it gently. "Sounds wonderful, _mother,_" he mumbled in a way that was somewhat friendly and partway annoyed.

"Hey, I might as well be considering you have no concept of time when you're focused on something," Al teased, pinching at the soft cheek of the other, eliciting a startled yelp.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked, turning slightly to face the older man. He furrowed his brow slightly, pulling back a little to look at him properly. "I'll only be sat in the passenger seat; you'll be the one driving."

Smirking, Alfred took the keys to the Escalade and tossed them to the Canadian, who fumbled violently before he managed to get a good grasp on them. Indigo eyes went globular and his jaw hung slack.

"A-A-Al, it … me … it's like …" he inhaled deeply and bit his lip, inhaling deeply before what he had to say came rushing out like a wave of water. "It's been almost four years since I've driven a car, Al. Your car is … like … an SUV which bigger and not as safe and it totally goes against everything I believe in because those things are going to destroy the environment someday and I will so not have a hand in it because that's just tasteless like your choice in shoes."

"So?" he demanded flatly, arching a brow and staring at him with a pointed amusement. "For one, leave my goddamn shoes out of this because my taste is impeccable. You, on the other hand, are tasteless and colour blind. Second document on the agenda: you have your licence. I've seen it, and it's still good for a while. Suck it up and learn how to drive again, babe."

Wait. What. Hold your shit for a second and just back the fuck up.

He had called Matthew babe.

Shit. Shit. Shit. _Shit_. Matthew's cheeks flushed scarlet and his eyes widened when it really registered with him what he had just said. Alfred, on the other hand, nearly bit his tongue off when he himself realized just what it was he had let slip. That did not just happen. That did _not _just happen. But as the other glanced to the floor, to the wall across from them and then back up to Al with the same stunned look on his pale face, he realized that yes, he had indeed said it.

Holy fuck well that was a Freudian Slip if there ever had been.

He smirked, however, eyes narrowing and then Alfred didn't know whether to be relieved at the fact that the other didn't smack him, or to be fearing what was eventually going to come out of his mouth. That was the problem with being friends with an unpredictable person, really. You never knew if what they were going to say next would make your grandmother roll over in their grave or would make you question your own level of sanity and tolerance. "Well then, _Princess,_ I _will _drive your fucking Escalade and if I wreck it then it's your own goddamn problem, got it?"

He let out a sigh. Not as bad as he had thought, thankfully. "Now, now, have a little self-confidence, would you?" Alfred said with a soft laugh, shaking his head as he rocked back and forth with a bit of impatience; was it just him, or was the elevator going a little bit slower than it usually did? "I highly doubt you're going to wreck my car."

Those well-intentioned, confident words we met with a sharp, reproachful and very disdainful look from the other and he quickly turned his gaze away to keep from the scolding one he was being given. "Dude, we've known each other long enough for you to be well aware of my levels of concentration and awareness of my surroundings," Mattie said in a flat voice, leaning back against the wall of the elevator and looking up at the hideously tiled ceiling. "So, destruction is imminent and I hope you have damn good auto and health insurance."

The words slowly sinking in and the meaning behind them finally kicking in, Alfred paled slightly and gave a weak laugh. "You, ah, you have a point there," he said. "Maybe I should take those back then."

"Not likely," the Canadian purred lightly. "You can deal with my driving now."

"But Mattie," Alfred whined, grabbing onto the sleeve of his sweater and tugging, earning him a coldly amused glance, "you're gonna total my Baby, we're going get mauled and then we'll die all alone in a ditch in the middle of nowhere and it'll be all your fault for not giving me back the keys!"

"And it'll be your fault for giving them to me in the first place!" Matthew sang jauntily, flicking the other man's slightly-upturned nose with a soft giggle when the other spluttered and flushed a little with embarrassment. "So you must learn to suffer the consequences from your actions, grasshopper."

Managing to snare the other's finger between his teeth, Alfred scowled deeply and spoke around the spindly digit. "Don't call me grasshopper when I'm older than you, twerp," he said thickly, glaring at the smirking man.

"I'll call you what I want," he taunted, then made a desperate whine as he tried to pull his finger free from between the teeth that were keeping it well secured in place. "Dammit, you fucking freak, let go of my finger!"

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"… _Please_?"

Oh that face.

That _face._

Alfred huffed and then slowly let go of the finger, cracking his jaw as he did so and laughing lightly as the Albertan massaged his dented finger with a malicious scowl on his face. "Douchwad," he mumbled blackly, wiping the spit from his skin and stuffing it in his mouth to suck on it, trying to ignore the painful throb that was steadily pulsing through it. "No one bites my finger."

"Oh really?" he replied in kind with a snort, stepping out through the doors of the elevator as they slid open, hitching for a brief moment before fully widening to let the two men pass. Before the lawyer even had a chance to step out through the electronic doors, Matthew had shoved past him and was already headed in the direction of the flight of stairs that would lead them down to the heated garage where his Escalade was parked. The younger man gave the doorman a friendly wave, smiling brightly before disappearing around the corner.

Well, at least someone showed a little bit of respect to the very underappreciated doorman.

Offering the man a smile as well - and only earning a mildly displeased glance in return (well he had, to an extent, brought it upon himself considering he had never actually thanked the man for opening the door for him, nor had anyone else from what he was aware of) - Alfred pointedly turned his gaze elsewhere and quickened his step to catch up with the lengthy, overeager strides of his friend. Someone wanted to get out of the city so badly that it was painfully obvious; but it was not something that he could blame him for - over the past few weeks, New York was after turning into nothing less than a disgusting glory hole of a place, and frankly, he just needed a sense of relaxation; a sense of normalcy in a world that was going slowly going crazier by the day.

Catching up to the other, hoisting his bag up further onto his shoulder as it started to slide down farther and bump against his knee, he linked their arms together and puffed his cheeks.

"You walk too fast," he grumbled into the shorter man's ear, blowing a raspberry right next to the shell, earning him a shrill squeal of disgust and a fist in the chest.

"Don't you _ever_ do that again you disgusting pig!" he trilled, swiping viciously at his ear with the sleeve of his sweater before giving the man beside him another smack, as though he were trying to reassure himself that at least one of the hits were felt.

"Oh, shut up you whiney little prick," Alfred laughed as they approached his vehicles: his sleek, black Mercedes Benz AMG 63 (he had gotten rid of the other model because of some faulty part or another) and his Escalade Hybrid, the four-wheel-drive they were using for their trip. He slid his arm around the other's thin waist and tugged him close with a smirk, delighting at how pale cheeks went rosy; how he sucked in his lower lip and took a dragged-out blink before settling in against him, the side of his jaw resting upon a broad shoulder.

Score another point for the New York Yankees.

Tightening his grip just a little, thumb sliding in to hitch itself upon the belt loop as he tugged the young man closer, Alfred hummed casually and tried to suppress the grin that was beginning to twitch the corners of his mouth upwards when he felt Matthew's arm snake around his own waist. He chuckled softly and glanced over to him, feeling his heart swell with a sense of elation. This felt … right, to say the least.

"Are you sure you want me to drive?" Matthew asked softly, looking up at his friend with an anxious expression upon his face. His chin remained on his shoulder and his expression was doleful. "I don't mind giving you back the keys; I-I was only joking when I said I would drive anyway."

Shaking his head in the negative, he let go of the Canadian's mid-section and leant against the passenger side of the Escalade, arms folded over his chest after he set his messenger bag down on the pavement at his feet. "I trust you enough," he said softly with a shrug, not really looking at Matthew but past him, free sky eyes vapid and soft. "Enough to know that you wouldn't wreck my car even if you don't know what you're doing; that you'll ask for help when you need it. I … I trust you. Anyway, I'm pretty good at driving from the passenger seat. Y'know, just in case the shit ends up hitting the fan."

Matthew laughed as he crossed over to the driver's side, unlocking the door and tossing his bag into the back as the lawyer piled in, doing the same. "Well, I'm glad at least one of us has confidence in me," he grunted as he jammed the key into the ignition, turning it and practically freezing when the engine came to life with a low purr.

"That's what usually happens when you start a vehicle," Alfred said flatly.

"Fuck off, Al," Matthew snarled, shooting the other a venomous look before he threw the gears into reverse. And then he hesitated, wiggling his fingers nervously on the steering wheel and then glancing down at the floor of the vehicle before he glanced into the rear view mirror.

"It might help if you put your foot on the gas peddle and turned around to see where you're going."

"Alfred …"

"Alright, I'll fuck off."

"Thank you."

Although it took a few minutes of anxious hand-flexing on the steering wheel, stopping-and-going, lots of bad words and one crucial moment where Alfred thought Matthew was actually going to murder him with the ballpoint pen he kept in the cup holder, the vehicle was finally removed from the parking spot and pulled onto the driveway of the inside lot. How the Canadian did it without ramming into another car was beyond him, but that didn't matter; all that counted was the fact that he had managed to get out of the space. But they still hadn't gotten onto the actual road just yet. They hadn't even gotten out of the parking garage yet.

An internal war was already being waged - you know, one side saying to give the poor young man a chance considering he had so many years of his life fucked up and then the other voice, the one that seemed to speak with at least a modicum of common sense, screamed mutiny at him and urged him to take back the driver's seat and just get them the fuck out of there. Both voices were very logical, and both of them were somewhat tempting in their own way. The dilemma was that he could only listen to one of those voices. However, there was one answer he knew would get him far better results in the long run, thus making it the most logical one to go with.

So he patiently sat in the passenger seat, one hand resting loosely on his thigh while the other, the right one and closest to the door, was white knuckled from how tightly it was clenched into the material of his jeans. Keep calm and carry on and all that jazz, right?

Getting out of the garage was not nearly as bad, except for when Matthew wasn't entirely looking where he was going based upon just how excited he had gotten over the fact that he was finally driving again and he nearly rammed the front end of the Cadillac into a concrete support beam.

Only because he had gotten really excited and his concentration threw itself off a seven-story building, thus earning himself an earful from his passenger that was beginning to grow increasingly worried for his personal safety. But Matthew was convinced that the beam hadn't even been there in the first place, leading Alfred to wonder if he had even been paying attention in the first place at all.

Fun part about all that was the fact that they hadn't even gotten on the road yet.

Maybe this was why men during the Cold War became known as draft dodgers; frankly, he felt like becoming one himself - only the open road was Vietnam and potholes were the Guerrilla soldiers, while Matthew was probably the King Kong of the whole mess. On the roads, he was going to be the major threat to all the poor, unsuspecting idiot drivers of New York and its outlying areas - until he got the hang of being behind the wheel again, of course. Then, hopefully, it would be as peaceful as a walk in Central Park on a warm, sunny day. But it wasn't something he could totally rely upon to happen, because who knew? His driving could deteriorate depending on the type of road they were driving on, the weather could change, he could just lose it altogether (not that he had it in the first place, or could afford to lose what he had, really).

And then, he realized with a slight anxiety and a sort of pride, that they were on the road and he hadn't even noticed them pull out. Sparing the driver a glance, Alfred had to withhold a laugh when he saw just how tense the other was - his arms were taut, knuckles white and his shoulders rigid. Eyes were wide behind his glasses and were focused exclusively on the road ahead of them, but his face was otherwise a blank slate; calm. It was also, he noted with some disdain, absolutely silent in the car.

Leaning forward and reaching to turn the stereo on and to hook up his iPod, he felt Matthew's hand on his wrist and glanced up to see the other still focused upon the road, but this time his brows were furrowed anxiously. "Don't turn anything on yet," he said in an offhand manner, letting go of the wrist he had a gentle hold on as he returned it to the steering wheel in order to make a turn. Both of them grimaced when the tire crunched against the curb for a brief moment. "Don't turn anything on yet; I won't be able to concentrate with music on. Not until I feel comfortable."

"A'ight," Alfred murmured, hand falling to his lap and his gaze going to the window to watch the buildings that passed them by. Not too fast, not too slow; a subtle glance to the speedometer showed that they were going just a little under fifty. Once more he turned his gaze back to the window, relaxing into the plush seat and humming quietly to himself as he propped his cheek in his palm, gazing out through the glass.

It felt nice to be the passenger for once, and not always the driver. Now, he could just sit there and lose himself in his thoughts - not something he had a chance to do very often as he always had to be concentrating on one thing or another, be it a case or his volunteer work, or even when he was out with the guys as they much preferred him to be engaged in the conversation. Not many people let him have his own peace of mind, even for a few minutes, other than Arthur and Matthew. They were the two people he could sit down with in the same room for hours and not speak a word with and still feel absolutely relaxed and at ease.

When he had been younger and just learning how to drive, Arthur teaching him when his father refused to ('_I don't have time for that shit,_' had been his response to the sixteen-year-old's pleas), painstakingly trying to get back into the swing of driving on the 'Yankee Side of the Road' just for his half-brother with an army of frustration backing him but not once completely showing, he had been beyond eager to learn how. It was going to be the highlight of his entire life; it had been the one thing he had spent so much time looking forward to and it was all he could think about once Arthur promised him, through a short and terse e-mail, that he would help him learn how to drive when he came back from England for the summer, to take a break from studying at Oxford.

Sixteen, stupid, and full of dreams - the only way to describe him when he had been that age. All he wanted was the open road, his own car and someone to drive with, everywhere and whenever he wanted. Whenever _they _wanted. It was all he still wanted, even now, when he knew he had everything he would ever need (or just about). The day he got his licence - that stupid, laminated piece of paper that declared him fit to drive - had been the greatest moment of his life, and even now, it still rivalled some of the more recent, just as amazing days.

He glanced over to the driver sometime later, once they were nearing the city limits and heading onto the interstate, and a tender, almost affectionate, look crept onto his face. Finally, Matthew seemed to have relaxed: his hands rested loosely on the bottom part of the steering wheel, wrists resting on his thighs, and he was after sinking back comfortably into the leather upholstery of the seat. Even his face seemed a little calmer than before: indigo eyes weren't nearly as wide as they were before, and he just seemed so _comfortable_.

"How are you finding it?" he inquired quietly, watching as the other blinked several times, glancing over and looking at him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Really good, actually - better than I thought I would." Pale lips twitched into a grin. "I forgot how much I liked driving," he admitted with a shrug, flicking up the indicator as he changed lanes, pulling fully into the center lane of the highway. They were going places now - like as far from New York City as they could get before they ended up in Canada.

Alfred laughed lightly, stretching and propping his feet up onto the dashboard, pushing his seat back a little to stretch out his legs properly. "See; I told you there was nothing to worry about," he gloated with a smug expression, giving another languid stretch before flopping and resting limply in the seat.

Matthew shook his head with a rued amusement, curls bouncing before glancing over at the man beside him once more. "Go and put on some music now if you want," he offered. "I think I should be good enough now."

"Only if you say so," he replied, removing his iPod from his pocket and slipping the cord into the bottom that would connect the music player to the stereo in his SUV. "The silence is starting to drive me batty, anyway." Turning the player on, he browsed down through some songs before settling on one, leaving the iPod in his lap and turning up the music a little as he rested back again, rolling down his window a bit and letting his fingertips stick out through the slither of space between the glass and frame while his other hand rested idly upon his knees.

"American Pie?" Matthew asked with a laugh when he actually noticed what song was playing.

Alfred gave him a bit of a simper, rubbing at his nose. "Fuck you, asshole," he said, flapping his hand dismissively. "It's a damn good song. Make fun of me and I'll make fun of your face."

"Oh shut your hole, Princess," he snapped in return, the smile on his face only broadening.

"I'd totally smack you if you weren't driving which ultimately means I have to worry about my safety to some extent."

"…You see that guard rail over there?"

"Yeah?"

"If you smack me, that's where your side of the car is going, got it asshole?"

"Yes'sir."

Then Matthew sat back, looking quite smug and comfortable as he flexed his fingers for a brief moment on the steering wheel. His work was done for the day.

Then, feeling emboldened, Alfred smacked Matthew good and hard on the thigh, earning a strangled yelp from the Canadian.

And all of a sudden the vehicle swerved dangerously and in the general direction of the guard rail, as promised. A shriek escaped Alfred as well as some incoherent babbles about sparing his pathetic, pitiful life at least until the next time he got laid, and Matthew nearly drove them off of the _other _road in the midst of howling with laughter until tears were streaming from his eyes and he was supporting himself on the steering column, gasping for breath.

"M-M-Maybe I shouldn't have l-let you drive," Alfred squeaked pitifully. "Y-You're _scary_."

"Love you too, Princess."

Alfred bit his tongue and slumped down in his seat, simply turning up the music a little louder to drown him out incase anything else was said, and he sighed, lightly bobbing his head in time to the music. When he spared the other a glance, he snorted knowingly when he saw the younger man drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time to the song playing, mouthing the lyrics as he went.

"Oh, I have a song you probably haven't heard in a while," Alfred said, picking his iPod back up and returning to the menu, grinning brightly. "I downloaded a shitton of nineties music last night, and I managed to find a few gems."

"Fucking hell the _nineties_," Matthew moaned, still laughing from his original outburst. Then, he paused when the song started, eyes widening. "I-I-Is this …"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"The godamn Mambo Number Five," he said, a look of sheer amazement on his face, eyes still wide as he bobbed his head a little in time to the music playing. "I don't even _remember _the last time I heard this song."

"Ilegal downloading, why you so _fine_?" Alfred said with a contented sigh, rocking his finger back and forth in time to the song and bobbing his head the same way Matthew was.

"Do you have Bohemian Rhapsody?"

"Do you have a penchant for asking dumb as shit questions?"

"How about Backstreet Boys and N*Sync?"

"I think they found their way onto the play list I did up, yeah."

"What about Ricky Martin?"

"… Do I look fucking gay to you?"

"Do you _really _want me to answer that? Like, I mean, do you _really _want me to answer that?"

"Fuck you, man. Just fuck you _so _hard."

"Truth hurts, eh Princess?"

"… Fuck _you_."

"You seem to be very adamant about getting around to fucking me today, Alfred. Why is that? Oh, wait, perhaps it's because you'r- a-are you alright man? That didn't sound too healthy."

And then Alfred proved that it was possible to choke on air.

Settling back in his seat once he got over his violent fit of hacking coughing, thanks to choking on plain ol' oxygen out of the pure shock of hearing the bold and slightly true statement that came out of Matthew's unassuming (_and perfectly shaped, look at those goddamn li-_ wait what the _fuck_) mouth, he simply shook his head and glowered, flushing a little. "I inhaled the wrong way don't look at me like that."

Matthew gave him a knowing look that caused Alfred's cheeks to darken even further and he slumped a little in his spot, puffing his cheeks. Enough was enough. Someone needed to do _something_. He was surprised in a pleasant way however, when the artist simply patted his knee in a friendly, consoling manner. The younger man's touch lingered a moment longer than it would have in any other situation, and, boldly, Alfred let his fingertips brush along his knuckles to feel the soft, cold skin there, tugging his lower lip into his mouth at the same time and gnawing on it for a brief moment. Of course his nervous habits had rubbed off on him; of course. The hand remained there on his knee after he had gently touched it and he hesitantly twined their fingers together, giving a nervous smile when the Albertan only reaffirmed the grip he had by keeping his hand there and allowing it to be held, sort of, by the other in the passenger seat. When he glanced over, he saw the smile on Mattie's face; the light blush on his otherwise blanched face.

So they remained that way for a while, Matthew with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Alfred's knee, their fingers locked together and both of them smiling like idiots.

Neither of them spoke a word, not wanting to bother with wasting their breath on trivial, idle banter like they usually would. It was nice to just sit there, listening to ridiculous music and having essentially nothing to say for once.

It was nice when they could do that; it made hanging out with him feel right. There was no such thing as a comfortable silence around the guys. But with Mattie? It was incredible.

Running the pad of his thumb along the pale knuckles, a fond smile on his face as he glanced down at their entwined fingers for a brief moment, Al rested his head back and hummed quietly, picking up his iPod and turning to another play list, carding down through the songs. He didn't quite know what he wanted to listen to, but they had already exhausted their nineties song list, so now he needed something else.

Settling on one song in particular, he set the music player back down in his lap and turned his gaze once more to the window, a thoughtful look upon his face, singing along softly to what was playing. "_Well you done done me and you bet I felt it. I tried to be chill but you're so hot that I melted. I fell right through the cracks, and now I'm trying to get back._" From the corner of his eye, he saw Matthew look over at him' saw the grin on his face.

"It's been a while since I've heard a decent mash-up of songs," he commented idly, once more returning his gaze back onto the road. "Who's this by?"

"How Six Songs Collide by Norwegian Recycling," Alfred said without so much as looking to the screen, eyes still shut as he continued to sing along quietly. "_Even the best fall down sometimes; even the wrong words seem to rhyme. Out of the doubt that fills my mind, I somehow find you and I collide._"

"_No need to complicate; our time is short - this is our fate: I'm yours._"

Glancing over to Matthew, a curious look upon his face, he watched as the other fell back into his previously silent state, looking perfectly content with himself for the time being. Then the Canadian glanced over to him and gave a meek smile.

"S'only lyric I can rememeber from that first song," he said quietly, attention still locked firmly upon the long stretch of road in front of them. "Probably because it's my favourite. It's … nice."

Alfred simply laughed, tightened his grip for a brief moment and then returned it to the way it was originally.

Suddenly, Mattie turned to him. "Do I take that off-ramp? Or is it the next one I use?"

Straightening and letting go of his hand after all that time, he leant across the dashboard and steering wheel, peering thoughtfully at what lay beyond the front end of his Escalade. "You take this one; the next one takes you out of the state and into the next one. That's an adventure we can save for another time."

"Right, sounds good to me," Matthew said as he started to reduce his speed, flicking the indicator on as he pulled onto the ramp and turned the vehicle in the direction of the thick, forested area that was set sprawling before them. A look of excitement flickered to life in his eyes, liting up his face, and he straightened up in his seat, flexing his hands excitedly on the gray and black steering wheel. Once they came off the ramp and were onto the actual road once more he gave the SUV a good shot of gas.

"Where are we going, anyway?" Matt asked with a glance to the man beside him.

"Oh, I 'unno," he said with a shrug, still stretched off languidly. "I know there's, like, a gorgeous lake with almost a bit of a cape a little way from here, and a sandy sort of beach. Lots of forest area, lots of places to explore. And there's a few small towns we can wander around that are in the same vicinity. How does that sound?"

He hummed, nodding. "Perfect," he said. "Anything's better than New York, honestly. It felt cramped before, but now it's just driving me crazy."

"You mean crazier."

"Fuck you."

"Now who's adamant about getting laid, huh?"

Matthew wisely chose to ignore the American lest he turned him into a smear on the shoulder of the road. He didn't really want to deal with murder charges anytime soon. Having something like that hanging over your shoulder in the form of a permanent record didn't really come across as overly appealing. Alfred, on the other hand, was thankful he had been promptly ignored.

Setting his hand back down on his knee and humming along to the new song playing - really, although it made him feel like such a pretentious hipster, Indie-style music was the best to listen to on a long drive and anyone that said otherwise was simply tone deaf - Alfred rolled his window down all the way, letting his arm dangle loosely over the frame and out the door, palm exposed to the wind as it came at them. Despite it only being still early - no later than ten thirty in the morning - the day was already a warm one and the sun overhead was strong. So he decided to let in the fresh air, let it mess up his hair more than what it already was. It felt so nice, especially after such a cold, damp winter where they saw more rain than anything.

Then he realized his hand felt lonely without Matthew holding onto it and he puffed his cheeks. This was bullshit.

Chris was right. Of all the people in the world to be right, it just _had_ to be that self-satisfied, ass-licking judicial suck-up.

He was fucking whipped, and they weren't even dating.

And then suddenly he felt Matthew's hand slip back into his and when he glanced over to the young man behind the wheel, he saw that his cheeks were bright pink and he was focusing intently on what was in front of them. Although he had no idea what had driven the Canadian to do that - to openly take his hand and hold it somewhat daintily even though there had been no prompting for him to do so - he wasn't going to turn the gesture away. That would be crazy. He grinned stupidly and tightened his grip on the other's hand and tilted his head back, shutting his eyes, feeling at peace with everything around him as his body practically sank into the cushiony material of the seat.

There was a hope, and all he needed now was the words.

"Hey, Al? Wanna stop for lunch?"

Jerking slightly, legs slipping down from the dashboard as he straightened up, Al glanced over to the other. He felt groggy, and after he rubbed his face he glanced at the clock on the stereo system: it was almost one. Fuck. His eyes widened and he rubbed the nape of his neck uselessly, trying to work the tingling sensation out of his hands and the kink from his neck. Blinking and looking around, glancing to the trees that still surrounded them, he turned to Matthew. "Was … was I asleep?"

"Of course asking you about eating would bring you out of your hibernation. And yes, you've been absolutely solid now since a little bit before eleven," the younger said with a soft laugh. Both hands were on the wheel now. "How late were you out at the court house last night, anyway?"

"I was there until almost two in the morning," he said with a sigh. "Those files and shit were such a mess; there was no way I'd be able to present them to a judge next week with the way they were, and it's not like I could take them with me." Alfred shrugged before slumping a little, looking about him as he still felt a slight sense of disorientation. How had he let himself fall asleep? "I … sorry, man."

"Don't worry about it," Matthew said gently, smiling over at him as he brought the Escalade onto the shoulder of the road, shutting the vehicle off after a moment and stretching lazily. He flopped back and gave a yawn of his own, running his hand through his hair and lightly tugging upon his pale blonde locks.

"Tired?" Alfred teased, taking off his seatbelt and reaching around his seat to grab Matthew's bag, which was where their lunched had been packed away.

"Nah, I just feel really lazy and chill right now," he hummed lightly, pushing back his seat a little and bringing his legs up. Crossing them Indian-style, he accepted the sandwich passed to him by his friend as well as the bottle of water he had packed. Alfred, on the other hand, had a leftover homemade hamburger and a can of cola. "Shouldn't you heat that up before eating it?"

Al glanced over to him, burger already stuffed into his mouth and an innocent, thoughtful expression upon his face. Then he shook his head 'no' before biting down into the pattie.

Figures.

Sighing and settling in to start in on his sandwich, Matthew rested back; staring out through the windshield as he slowly took a bite. His gaze was blank but wholly focused on the strip of faded blacktop before them and his chewing was almost mechanical.

Slightly perturbed, Alfred gently nudged his elbow. "You okay?" he asked softly.

There was a delay in his reaction, but the young man blinked slowly and then nodded, glancing down to the steering wheel and then over to Alfred, offering him a smile. "I'm fine," he said. "Just a little tired."

The American nodded and sipped his drink. "Didja want me to take over driving for now? Cause anyway, you have to take your pills in a few minutes, so I don't want you behind the wheel after that."

Matthew laughed quietly, shaking his head and making a snuffing noise through his nose - rather inelegant but just as arrogant as the best of them. "You sound just like McKnight, you know that?" All he did after he said that was shake his head again and stuff another bit of sandwich into his mouth.

"Is that a good or bad thing?" Alfred asked with a chukle, picking up his iPod once more and skipping past a few songs, hamburger stuffed back into his mouth and his drink held in one hand. A muffled whine escaped him when ketchup dripped from the other end of the burger and onto his jeans.

Instantly handing the older man a napkin, he snickered as the man dabbed at the condiment with a pathetic look upon his face - in fact he looked damn well close to crying over the fact that there was ketchup on his new jeans. "It all depends, really," he said as he watched him sniffle and wipe his pants free of the substance. "Sometimes it's good when it's something like that, but then there are times when he can be like an overbearing father."

"I never had that problem, considering my father never had time for me," Alfred said with a nonchalant shrug.

"Me neither, at least not until I was fourteen," Matthew said with a sigh. "Then again, I don't know if I could call that 'having time for me'…"

"I take it your parents divorced when you were younger, too?" he asked, finishing off his burger and wiping his hands. When he was done he shoved the dirty napkin into a little garbage bag that was hung from the gear shift.

"No," Matt replied quietly, lowering his sandwich as he stared out the windsheild. He glanced at the food and set it back into the ceramic container with a sigh as he pressed forward and put his chin down on the steering wheel. "I never knew my dad."

"Oh."

The Canadian glanced over to Alfred and gave him a tiny, hollow smile. "It's fine, though; I don't really care to meet him. Not really. My mother never really told me what happened between them, but she didn't care all that much for him. So I never found out why he left when she had me. My step-father knew as well, but there was no fucking was I was going to ask that bastard who he was."

Alfred swallowed thickly. "And here I've been, occasionally bitching about how much I can't stand my father," he said with a weak laugh. "Now I just feel fucking insensitive."

Reaching over and gently squeezing his knee, Matthew gave a crooked smile and shook his head. "No, no. Don't worry about it. Been insensitive is in the nature of an American or something like that. If I'm meant to know who my father is, then I'll find out someday: that's how I look at it. Now stop giving me that teenage angst my cat just died look and get over here to drive so I can take my pills and be out of it for half an hour."

"Man, why do you even take those pills?" Alfred asked as they crawled over one another to change sides, nearly ending up with Matthew's knee in a place where it _did not _belong. "You don't seem to be nearly as bad as you were when we first started hanging out. I mean, you were fucking neurotic and in need of a ray of sunshine up the ass, but why are you still on it?"

"That's because I find I have less to worry about on a day-to-day basis, and it's really beginning to show. Like, I can _breathe._" Tucking his legs beneath him and a strand behind his hair ('you're such a woman', Al snarked, ducking when his empty Cola can was thrown at him), Matthew shrugged and then huffed. "He's slowly taking me off the Valium; two months ago I was on four 10mg doses a day. Now I'm on three 6mg doses a day. He lost his shit when he found out I stopped taking my depression medications without any warning, so now he's slowly taking me off these ones for my anxiety," he said. "Frankly, I'm glad; I already owe him more than enough for psychiatric care, let alone all the pills he's been paying for for me over the past couple years now. The amount of debt I face to that man is astronomical, so the quicker I can pay him back the better."

"Has it ever occurred to you that he might not ask you to pay him back?" Alfred inquired as he watched the younger open up the front flap of his bag to take out his pill bottle and pop a small, pastel-coloured tablet into his mouth before leaning back over and grabbing what was left of his sandwich and quickly inhaling the rest of it. He slipped the medication back into his bag and uncapped his water, sipping from it and looking out the window as he did. He looked so tired all of a sudden, and that was when Al noticed that the bags had returned; his skin was a shade paler than usual - he looked so worn down and he wondered if it was a good idea for them to be going on an excursion as such.

"I'd like to think that's not an option," Matthew murmured. "He's spent so much on me. It just … wouldn't be right."

"I'd like to thank him someday," Al said softly, starting the Escalade as he pulled on his seat belt, Matthew mirroring his actions. The Canadian looked at him with an expression of confusion. Al glanced over to him, flexed his hands on the steering wheel and then sat back with a sigh. "Y'know, for keeping you alive and in one as-sane-as-you-can-get piece. I need to thank him a lot for that, actually."

Colour flared up into his cheeks and he looked down at his lap, gnawing upon his lower lip. Then he looked back up to the other, eyes desperate and begging for some sort of explanation. "Alfred…"

Instead of saying anything at all, the District Attorney just shook his head and smiled softly, gently touching the other's cheek for a moment, running the tips of his fingers along the smooth skin beneath them, before sharply pulling the SUV back out onto the road and flooring it, startling a bark of laughter from the passenger.

No need for them to be just sitting like ducks on the side of the road when they needed to get as far away from everything as possible, so Alfred just kept his focus on the road before him because he wanted to get where they were going in one piece.

And beside him Matthew laughed and kept his right arm dangling limply out the window, head resting back against the headrest and his eyes hazy as the medication began to work the first effects of its magic. When he stopped laughing, he turned to babbling utter nonsense about freedom, religious wars and terribly dubbed films because for some reason that was what the Valium was doing to him lately.

Not that Alfred minded too terribly, because he loved the sound of the younger man's voice, even when the medication was still a little too strong for his liking.

They had been going for no more than an hour when he veered the Escalade off the main road and down a gravel one, trees encasing them on either side once more, yet thicker than before. He had shut the music off as they went down the road, just his fingertips resting on the bottom part of the steering wheel as he catiously directed the SUV down the somewhat unsteady path. Matthew had his face turned to the window he had rolled up some time ago, but from the way he was breathing and how he hadn't said anything for the past ten minutes, Al knew the man had passed out cold.

He shook his head lightly, peering over at him, sighing when his thoughts stood verified. His face was slack and peaceful and resting several inches from the glass. Solid.

Well, he was until Alfred hit a pot hole, the front end of the vehicle on the passenger side to dip down and to the side violently, causing the napping Matthew to jerk forward and his forehead to collide violently with the thick glass.

"_Fuck!_" Matthew yelped, awaking when his skull smacked against the window, eyes flying wide as alertness was unceremoniously bestowed upon him once more. His hand went to the spot that had made contact and he massaged at it with his fingertips, grimacing as another slew of obsceneties flew past his lips.

Bursting out laughing, Alfred made a choked noise when it happened, a hand flying to his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly into the near-quiet of the vehicle. "Y-You okay?" he managed to gasp out after a moment, feeling a slight twinge of concern when he saw the other look around him blankly, still masssaging at his forehead.

"Hn, yeah," he mumbled, blinking slowly and then stretching. "It just … took me off guard more than it hurt."

Alfred nodded and chuckled again, ignoring the venomous '_I hope you find this funny, jackass_' that came from the still semi-asleep Matthew. The Albertan flopped back, shutting his eyes once more and rubbing at them from behind his glasses, masking a yawn with his other hand. When he reopened his eyes, they were a little more alert than before; the drugs had finally settled into his system.

"Where are we now?" he asked softly, glancing around and even going as far as to turn all the way around and peer out the back window of the Escalade.

"You'll see," he hummed, drumming his hands upon the steering wheel as he manoeuvred around a tree stump, nearly causing the front bumper to get hitched on the chunk of dead tree.

Matthew flounced before turning to glare at him, a childish pout on his face that made the driver snicker. "No fair," he whined. "I've been asleep for like an hour. Please tell me?"

"No," Alfred said, grinning brightly when Matthew flopped back and folded his arms across his chest, cheeks puffed out still. "Actually, if I'm right, we should be getting there in just a few minutes. Keep your eyes on the road ahead of us, alright?"

Sighing and putting his feet up onto the dashboard, Matthew ran his hand through his hair, tugging on one of the curls and watching as it bounced when he let go. Then he turned his eyes to watch what was before them, as his friend had instructed. No sooner than he had turned and a slither of sapphire blue water came into view. Eyes went wide and the Canadian leant forward, taking his legs down off of the dash and using his hands to brace his weight upon the dash.

After another stretch of driving along the beaten down dirt road, the trees around them cleared and Alfred slowed to a stop, parking the Escalade at the edge of an expanse of water and sand.

What lay before them was a shade of blue like nothing else Matthew had seen. It reflected the sky overhead with the slightest shade of green to it, and from the clarity of the water, he could see the way the clouds drifted overhead mirrored upon the glasslike surface. Trees surrounded the entire lake, but the other side remained some distance away - far enough that he could barely make out what it was that was on the other side. They must have gone downhill a bit, he realized as he got out of the vehicle, because of the way the rocks were around the lake: some areas it was simply a light, grassy incline, but in spots further into the boundry of water and land, there were sheer, cliff-like drops.

Matthew remained speechless, just looking at everything surrounding them and trying to take it in all at once. "I've never…" he swallowed as his mouth went dry and the words he wanted to use failed to come to him. Matthew stood there silently, muted awe written upon his face as Alfred came to stand beside him, their bags in his grasp. "I've never seen anything like this. Not in New York, at least." He swallowed again, his slight Adam's Apple bobbing. "I-I mean, I've been to Whislter and all down along the West Coast of Canada. I've seen all of Alberta - Banff, Jasper, the northern parts, and Lake Lousie - and that doesn't count all the other places in Canada I've been to. But this? I … this takes the cake. This is beautiful." When he said that final word, it was in a whisper, one that was far quieter than the way he usually spoke and Alfred almost never heard him.

"It's something alright," Al agreed in a voice that was just as low, shouldering his black bag as Matthew took his own beige-and-brown one.

Although this was not the first time he had seen the place - nor would it ever be the last - he was struck by the exact same feeling each and every time he went there: the sense of being so much smaller. To be stood in the wilderness felt different than standing in the middle of Times Square. For the obvious reasons, of course: that was the heart of the biggest metropolitan in the United States of America, and this was perhaps the most beautiful natural escapade New York had to offer as a state - Niagara Falls was as lovely as ever, but to him it was nothing more than a tourist gimmick; there was nothing natural and beautiful about - for the love of God there was even lights put in beneath the falls. But this? This forest and lake and cape and beach?

This made him feel small.

It made him feel wonderfully tiny and alone and just lost to the rest of the world around him.

Sitting down and digging the tips of his sneakers down into the sand, Alfred wrapped his arms around his legs and stared out along the water, observing from the corner of his eye as Matthew set his bag back down and bent over to pick up a few rocks, skimming them along the surface. Ripples spread out for as far as one could see and the _plunk-plunk-plunk _sound was the only noise around.

Everything and the silence made him feel as though he were on another planet altogether; on one where he was deaf to all.

Maybe he needed to find a way to soundproof his condo; even at three in the morning there was anything but perfect silence like this. Nothing was immersed in pitch darkness for the glow of the city lights always managed to find a way to sneak into his place and illuminate it, even if only it was the main area and not his loft that got lit up.

Deciding to voice this aloud, despite feeling loathe of breaking the silence that encased them, Alfred cleared his throat. "Do places like this make you feel small?"

Matthew stopped skipping the stones and turned partially in order to face him, looking down at him with a pensive expression before nodding a little. He turned back towards the lake and then sat down where he was. "It makes me feel humble," he said quietly. "Smaller than usual. You'd think it's a bad feeling; something you wouldn't like because no one likes to feel small, no one likes to feel alone, but to me it's perfect. It's always been an ideal feeling, or at least there are times when it is. But this? All of this, right now? All this right here is perfect."

Jones, for a brief moment, wondered if he was included in what had created that feeling but in the end he deemed it to be a selfish thought so he pushed it away as he lay on his back, staring up at the clouds slowly drifting across the sky.

Humble. Small. Alone. But alive.

It was perfect, just as Matthew had said.

And around them there was nothing but silence and the sound of his own heartbeat filling his ears, close to deafening.

Perhaps it was minutes later, or perhaps it was hours (a glance to his watch soon confirmed that it had only been fifteen minutes of them lying/sitting there and doing nothing - blissful, sweet, endless nothing), and Matthew finally spoke, coming over to lie down beside Alfred on the ground. He rested upon his stomach, chin propped in an upturned palm as he looked down at the older man with a tiny smile.

"I saw a building some way from here," he murmured. "Wanna go take a look? We could hike along the shoreline."

Eyes opening, he lifted his hand to shield his retinas from the sun overhead, considered it for a moment, and then nodded. "There are a few abandoned places in the area, but we're not going _in _any of them, got it? Those places aren't safe without the proper equipment, and I can't remember offhand what those buildings were used for."

Spitefully, Mattie huffed and stood, helping Alfred up in the process with a little more force than what he probably intended for. "Fine, fine," he conceded with a dismissive wave of the hand. Bending at the waist, he grabbed up his bag and draped the strap down over a thin shoulder, straightening out his bright, fire-engine red zipper-sweater. "Just to make you happy, we won't go through any abandoned buildings just because you're such a big pussy."

Alfred made a squawking noise of protest, to which Matthew retaliated against by merely blowing him a kiss and winking, turning upon his heel and setting off down along the shore.

Flushing deeply, the American floundered for a moment before hitching his bag up over his shoulder and jogged a little bit to catch up to the quick-paced stride of his companion.

"You walk too fast," he grumbled.

"And you walk too slow," he replied.

"And you don't take enough time to enjoy everything around you," Al shot back, smirking when he, for the first time in a long time, rendered Matthew speechless. Normally when that happened it was the other way around for he always had something to come back with - _his tongue was like a well-trained dagger_, Arthur had once commented when Alfred had gone whining to him about the younger man being such a fucking bully - and he never hesitated when shooting back a retort. Or, at least not until now. Fuck yeah.

Properly smug and smirking darkly he marched ahead of the younger man, nose held in the air until something collided with the back of his head and he let out a yelp at the cold, wet splat, and how whatever it was slid down along his neck _and down the back of his shirt and out of reach._

Shrieking in a way that was totally masculine and didn't make him sound like a total woman, Alfred squirmed, dropping (or more like throwing) his bag to the ground and reaching around with both arms to his back, swatting at the wet spots. "Oh my God, what is that Matthew get your fucking scrawny Canuck ass over here and fucking get it out," he trilled, squealing and whining and dancing in the spot as he tried to get out whatever the hell it was out. "Come over here right now and get it out please oh my Christ it's so cold and slimey _please._"

Laughing hysterically, Matt dropped his bag to the ground and approached the squirming and near-tears Alfred, a hand over his mouth as he tried to smother the brunt of his giggles. It wasn't working out for him, so he just out-right gave up and sighed, trying to breathe and not choke. Slipping his hands up under his shirt and up along his back, he prodded around the firm muscles for a moment, frowning as he tried to find what it was he had thrown at the American. "I … I can't really find it, Al."

Alfred's eyes bugged. "Don't you tell me that," he whined in a shrill voice. "_Don't you dare tell me that!_"

At this the Canadian made a choked noise and moved closer, fanning his fingers out as he tried to find the wet substance he had flung. Once he located it (after shamelessly kneading at the American's well-toned back because, well, why not take advantage of the situation while he could?). Then he handed the piece of pond-water swollen flower to the American, who dropped it with a whine.

"I can't believe you would throw something as disgusting as that at me," he huffed childishly, scowling darkly and squirming a little more as he felt goosebumps creep along his skin, causing him to shiver. It was like the feeling of a spider skittering along his flesh. "You asshole."

"Live with it," he said with a smirk, bending over to grab the little flower, running his finger along the petals. Then the next thing he knew, Alfred had grabbed it out of his hands and was after stuffing it down his own shirt, eliciting a shriek of bloody blue murder from the Canadian.

"Oh my God, no!" he whined with wide eyes and a slack jaw, squirming and fanning out his shirt to get it to drop to the ground.

Alfred, however, latched onto his thin mid-section and snickered, keeping his arms pinned. "I suffered through it, and you have to until I feel better about myself, got it?"

"No, no, no, no, _no!_" Mattie practically wailed, trying to twist out of the other's grasp. His jerky movements only succeeded in bringing them closer to the water and, in trying to step back, he outright collided with Al's legs. Alfred tried to jerk away while Matthew moved in the other direction when he shouldn't have. The next thing either of them knew, there was a loud splash and the shorter of the two became intimately introduced to the lake.

Sitting up, gasping for breath and up to his chest in the water, Matt sat there with a bewildered expression on his face, looking about him as his hair hung messily in front of his eyes. And then he spluttered, pushing his dripping hair back and staring up with an incredulous expression. "You … you … I …"

"Merry Christmas?" Alfred offered meekly.

Then there was another splash and suddenly Alfred found that he had joined his friend in the water with a shriek of his own; but this one was of laughter moreso than surprise alone.

Practically on top of him in the water, Alfred was crouched with his hands on either side of the other's hips, breathless and wide-eyed as Mattie grinned, snickering as well.

"If I go down I'm taking you with me," he teased lightly, giving the lawyer a good, hard shove, sending him flying off of his waist and into the awaiting water. This elicited a loud curse from the man and Matthew started to laugh, standing and looking down at how his clothes clung to his drenched body. A startled yell left him when Alfred made a lunge and simply dragged him back down.

Skinny legs buckled and Matthew collapsed on top of the other, glasses falling from his face in the process and landing somewhere in the water. Alfred wrapped his arms around the man's waist and grinned up at him, chin pressed against his soaked chest. "Well, I'm game for that," he said brightly, voice cracking a little when he felt him settle against his body, straddling his hips and legs going to rest comfortably on either side of his frame.

Carding his spindly fingers through the American's dripping hair, Matthew smiled down at him, expression tender as they locked eyes. Alfred realized suddenly that he wasn't breathing and he exhaled slowly through his nose, blushing as the other slicked back his hair, both of his hands going to rest on his neck, thumbs running lightly along his jaw, before one hand moved up to cup his cheek. Cold, nearly white fingers on his other hand moved smoothly along his lips, his thumb hooking upon his lower lip for a brief moment before he trailed his fingers down over his chin and neck, letting them sit at his collar bone. The man in his lap looked so utterly focused on what it was he was doing; eyes were hazy, his brow was lightly furrowed and not once did he look away. He didn't even attempt to.

"M-Matthew?" he asked quietly as the other settled down against him. They were still in the water and his bum was getting cold, a little voice scolded him lightly, but Alfred easily pushed that away when he felt the other's breath ghost lightly across his cheek and lips. Turning his head slightly, their noses brushed and Mattie grinned shyly.

"Yeah?" he whispered against Al's jaw, fingers gently running along his cheek. With his hands placed on either side of his face, he turned the other so that their foreheads were touching and he smiled. Alfred's stomach was doing anxious rolls and his cheeks were burning despite how numb that water he was seated in was making him. Their lips were maybe two inches apart at the most. And maybe even that was pushing it; he could feel each little, quick exhale dance across his mouth and chin, and against his chest he could feel the other's heart pounding in a steady, fast rhythm; Matthew was just as nervous as he was. Upon realizing this he tightened his grip on the narrow waist before him, sliding one hand up to cup the nape of his neck and he smiled a little, loving how the other's eyes positively lit up with delight, knowing that the other actually wanted what he wanted as well.

And then Alfred jerked away quickly, sneezing steadily before flopping back onto his elbows.

_Fuck._

_**No**_.

Despite the obvious dismay written on his face, they both burst out laughing and then Matthew crawled off of his hips, fishing through the water to grab his glasses. When he managed to locate them, he shook them off and placed them on the bridge of his nose before standing. Then he extended his hand to Alfred, who begrudgingly took it, (although he _did _consider dragging Matthew back down and finishing what they had just almost started).

"We should probably get out of here before we catch our death," Matthew said with a light laugh as he waddled back to shore, Alfred trailing along behind him with a forlorn look upon his face as he cursed himself out in every language he knew.

"Ten bucks says we get pneumonia out of this," he managed to say with a little chuckle, shaking his head and hauling his sweater off, chucking it onto the ground as he tried to wring out the tail of his shirt. Water poured from it steadily and he deemed it a lost cause and as they neared the Escalade, the t-shirt he wore went the same way as the sweater, draped over his arm with his sweater, bag hung from his bare shoulder.

Matthew, on the other hand, had started sneezing as well and was doing his best to keep his eyes ahead of him and not on Alfred and his bare … toned … rather nice … torso.

It was harder to do than he had initially thought.

"I-I guess it's a good thing I suggested we bring extra clothing just in case, right?" Matthew offered weakly, gnawing on his lower lip.

"Damn good idea," Al grunted, dropping the clothing and his bag to the ground as he opened up the back door, leaning in to grab the shirts and pants they had taken along with them, throwing Matthew's at his face. He caught it with a splutter and looked away shyly, face flushing darkly as he hesitantly peeled off his shirt, paused for a moment, then stripped down to his boxers and hauled on his dry clothing in what had to be record time.

Alfred blinked, looked around and then laughed, shaking his head ruefully, wondering just where the fire was and how the hell he would get Matthew back in his lap so he could try to finish just what it was they had managed to start out there in the lake.

And little did he know that the next time Matthew would be in his lap would be later on in the evening when the two of them were half asleep and relaxing by the lakeside once more in front of a bonfire Alfred had thrown together on the sand on rocks.

Carding his fingers through hair that was still a little bit damp, Alfred stared out over the lake, watching the flames that were reflected upon the surface that was just as black as the sky overhead. Little pinpricks of white dotted the entire sky like a pin cushion, and he turned his gaze downward to the Canadian, smiling at just how fascinated he was with the world above them.

"I don't remember the last time I saw this many stars at one time," he murmured quietly, hands folded on his stomach, eyes growing heavier and heavier with each passing moment as he stared upwards with glassy eyes. A glance to the iPod beside him showed that it was nearly midnight and he hummed lightly, fingers never stopping in their gentle caressing motion. Then he paused, tugging a twig out from his curly blonde locks.

He chuckled softly, flicking the piece of wood onto the ground beside him. "I can't believe I'm still picking twigs out of your hair."

"S'not my fault I fell down that hill," Mattie mumbled sleepily, curling in close to the lawyer, eyes drooping a little as he spoke.

"Well, you were the one that wanted to get closer to that building," Alfred reminded him gently.

Saucily, he mimicked what his friend had said and simply buried his face in his knees, grumbling quietly. Then the grumbles soon ceased and then, with absolutely no surprise whatsoever, he found that he had fallen asleep. His face was slack and one hand was fisted into the material of his jeans while his knees had been drawn up to his chest. Carefully removing his glasses, Alfred set them down in the sand beside his iPod; leaning forward, he pulled off his sweater and draped it down over the slumbering form.

And then he went back to stroking his hair and staring out over the lake, listening to the sound of the fire crackling and popping, wondering how long it would be 'til he managed to fall asleep as well, and how long it would take for other things in his life - their lives - to unravel and work out to be they way they should.

* * *

Spell-checking this shit tomorrow. I'm just going to leave this here for you guys while I keysmash all over the place because hey even though this took two weeks for me to get out I think it's a respectable length for that time period and I don't think anyone knows how much shit got cut out of this last minute. They weren't supposed to fall in the water and almost make out, they were supposed to wander through the woods and get stoned.

LOL LOOK AT HOW THINGS TEND TO CHANGE.

I swear this story is just writing itself, fucking Christ.

Oh, and prepare yourself for the next chapter. Just take my advice and do it. Because I have to brace myself for writing it, and my God this is like cruelty.

IT WON'T BE TOO LONG NOW, GUYS. YOU HAVE MY WORD BECAUSE IF I WAIT ANY LONGER, LIMBS ARE GONNA FALL OFF OF MY BODY. BLUE BALLS. EH.

But, as well, I'm going to set this to an update every two weeks because that makes it a bit easier for me because then I'm not rushing to get out the chapter. I hate making it half-assed. Srsly. If I get a chapter done before the two-week deadline, then I'll post it. If it's any later … then work ate my soul.

AND WTF I still don't get how this thing has so many reviews and how you've all stuck with it this far EVEN THOUGH THEY STILL HAVEN'T MAN-HANDLED EACH OTHER.

God guys, I fucking love you all so. Fucking. Much. Maybe I'll make an FST for this damn thing. Who knows; there's so much music in it.

Speaking of music: /watch?v=vqCIQ5sf_3Y

How Six Songs Collide by Norwegian Recycling. I die for this song like you don't even know what.

THANKS SO MUCH AGAIN YOU GUYS FOR PUTTING UP WITH ME LIKE I LOVE YOU ALL. -HORMONAL FEMALE SOBBING EVERYWHERE-


	20. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER TWENTY.  
**"_Nobody saves America by sniffing cocaine. Jiggling your knees blank-eyed  
__in the rain, when it snows in your nose you catch cold in your brain."_

There was a fine mist drifting across the surface of the lake, creeping slowly like a fog with slender tentacles of low-slung dampness despite the promise of a blue sky over head and a warm day lying ahead, when he awoke still seated in an upright position with his chin resting against his chest, hand resting on Matthew's hip in the same spot it had been when he had fallen asleep some five hours ago. It wasn't quite light out just yet, but there was the slightest sliver of blue just beyond the clouds that were drifting high overhead, almost pastel in amongst the pale shade of cerulean.

Lifting his head with a gasp of pain, Alfred massaged the nape of his neck with his free hand and gave a hiss at the burning sensation that flared along wherever he touched. It hadn't been his intention to fall asleep this way - sat up in the cold against a log when there was a warm Escalade parked some ten or fifteen feet away from them - but when Matthew had dozed off in his lap just after midnight, he didn't have the heart to wake him back up.

Despite the pain that flared through every part of his body - shoulders right down to his hips and thighs - and feeling as though he had been hit by a truck carrying containers upon containers filled with various strains of the flu, common cold and swine flu, it was completely worth it in the end to wake up and see Matthew still curled in against him, expression docile as he slept beneath the lawyer's sweater.

All of this right now was definitely worth the fact that he probably had pneumonia from falling in the lake and sleeping outside on a cool April night in just a t-shirt.

Sliding down a little, allowing his back to curve (and ripple with cracks that made him whine desperately from the pain), he cautiously moved the perfectly inert Canadian's head to his stomach instead of the top of his leg. Al ran a hand through his hair and stared up at the sky, feeling his eyes and the skin beneath them burning with discomfort. He felt as though he had barely slept despite the five hours he had gotten; perhaps it was from the position he had slept in, or perhaps it was from waking up on occasion to make sure Matthew was still there and that he hadn't wandered away because for all he knew the Canadian could have been prone to bouts of sleep walking.

Wouldn't _that _be just grand, waking up the next morning and finding him either submerged in the pond or just having altogether vanished?

He froze when the young man curled up beside him stirred a little, nuzzling in closer to his side and turning so that instead of his head being the only thing making contact with the American, his entire body was pressed alongside him. His breath hitched briefly and then he grinned, giddiness taking over as Matthew, in his sleep, fisted at the material of his shirt and curled in as close as he could possibly get - even going as far as wrapping his left leg around Al's right one and draping his right leg across the man's thighs. In his sleep he made an incoherent mumbling sound, stirred for another brief moment and then stilled once more; still good and asleep.

And Alfred's heart may or may not have melted at the sight of it, but considering everything, one could assume that it was the former.

Shutting his eyes once more when he was finally comfortable and resting his head back upon the log, he sighed lightly as he continued to play with the younger man's curly blonde locks, letting the soft tendrils slide through and around his fingers with ease. With the way the other was snuggled into him, he was beginning to feel a good deal warmer than what he had been prior. With his free hand, he groped about the ground until his fingertips came in contact with something cold and metal and he smiled, opening his burning eyes back up as he snatched up Matthew's iPod. A few weeks ago he had broken down and finally bought a laptop - what the man used it for was beyond Alfred, considering it was in the corner of his living room with dust already gathered upon the top of it - and the thing had come with an iPod as some sort of a promotion.

Turning it on, he glanced through the menu and jumped to the song list - which was already at well over some two thousand songs (someone went download happy) - and hummed softly, sticking the earbuds in his ears, deciding to give his music a listen. He kept the volume down to the point that he could barely hear what was playing, just incase the other should stir and actually say something coherent.

'_Let's see what the little mongrel listens to,_' he thought with a small smirk forming on his face. '_We have … 311. Against All Authority. Alexisonfire. The Analogs. Arcade Fire. Bad Religion. Beatles. Big D and the Kids Table. Billy Joel. Billy Talent. Bob Dylan. Bob Marley. Bob Seger … Britney Spears …?_' At that Alfred stopped and just stared at what was there, glancing to the young man in his lap with an odd look upon his face; that wasn't something he had expected to see there. And when he clicked into the list, his jaw dropped when he found her entire discography there lain out before him in all its radio-friendly, teeth-rotting and slutty glory.

Well, not like he could say much, considering she was on his iPod as well.

Still lazily playing with the sleeping man's hair, once he got over his initial shock at finding Britney Spears, he turned back to the list. He frowned lightly; clicking on a band labelled 'City and Colour' and hummed thoughtfully, flicking down through the song list before settling on one called 'Day Old Hate'. He didn't quite know what to expect in terms of music, considering Mattie's taste in what he listened to was just as bipolar as he could act at times, but he smiled softly upon hearing it. What played was nice; soft and something he could easily relax to if he wanted. Which he was currently planning on doing. They were definitely a band to add to his own collection of music. Which would apparently take sixteen days, nineteen hours, seven minutes and thirty-two seconds to play, but hey he could always stand for a few more tunes, right?

As he listened to what was playing, a tiny smile on his face, he continued to browse down through the list, stumbling across a few gems he wouldn't have expected to find there - like ABBA, Cheap Trick, a load of Disney songs and Duran Duran, music from the Fiddler on the Roof film. Matthew's taste in music was sharp, impeccable. Not to mention he loved his punk, indie-punk, punk-rock and post-punk music to bits, so it was surprising to see synth-pop bands like Duran Duran just chilling out on his music player.

And then he found it.

Gwen Stefani.

Gwen _fucking_ Stefani was on Matthew's iPod and he didn't know about it until now.

Looking down at the slumbering artist, he grinned stupidly. "I think you're a little gayer than you like to let on, pet," he murmured lightly, running his thumb down over his jaw. His face remained slack, and when he looked closer he laughed lightly when he saw that Matthew was actually drooling a little in his sleep. He couldn't decide if it was precious or absolutely nasty, and he decided it was actually the latter because of the fact that there was a patch of dampness beginning to form on his shirt. Sliding two fingers beneath his jaw, he shut the man's mouth and hoped that would be enough to keep the saliva from getting all over his clothing. He highly doubted it.

Then Alfred thought about how, unlike the other, he had Bonnie Tyler, Madonna and Christina Aguilera on his own iPod and realized that the same damn thing could be quite easily applied to himself in turn.

"Well now, shit."

And so he continued to browse silently through the seemingly endless list of band, the majority of what he saw there either being bands from Canada, band from the seventies and eighties, or bands he had never heard of until this very moment. But he had to give him some credit; his tastes were so damn ecletic. It was like every genre of music just vomited a little bit of something into his play list (and this belief was furthered when he found Taylor Swift's discography there, as well).

Then again, he _was _the most open-minded individual Alfred had ever met, even if there were times they clashed over politic beliefs; Alfred was fairly conservative in his beliefs - if the corporation makes the money, then frankly it should be theirs - while Matthew was stuck somewhere between Liberal and just downright Socialist - free healthcare, education, everyone should attempt being equal and marijuana _really _needed to be legalized already (and when Alfred called him a 'Red in the making' the man left with an interesting bruise that almost reminded him of Mikhail Gorbachev's ridiculous birth mark).

Matthew liked to call himself a lovely shade of magenta.

Bobbing his head lightly to what the music had changed to - a glance back to the screen showed that it was some band called The Presets - Alfred once more busied himself with scouring the contents of Mattie's iPod to get some ideas of what to download when they got back from their little excursion. So much he hadn't heard of and so much he liked.

"Oh you little hipster," Alfred said with a choked laugh as he came across Vampire Weekend's discography. "I never knew you had it in you."

"'M not a fuckin' hipster," was the mumbled grunt that came from down near his stomach. Pausing the music, Al glanced down with wide eyes and a grin broke out across his pale face. With a contrary express on his face Mattie glared up at him, expression dark and hazy - he was still half-asleep, so he had probably just woken up moments before he had spoken.

"Really now?" he teased, gently pushing his nose with an icy finger. "According to some of the music you got here you're a big-ass hipster."

"Fuck you. I like good music," he grunted, curling in closer and tightening his grip on the American's mid-section, nuzzling his face into his abdomen at the same time. Alfred felt his cheeks heat up and his gut clench at the feeling. "It doesn't make me a derp."

"Well, you also wear a shit ton of plaid, converse, you have the ultimate love-hate relationship with the modern world, so in my opinion, that makes you a bit of a hipster. You also love Polaroid photography, messenger bags, organic food, ironic shirts and graffiti."

At this Matthew sat up and huffed sleepily, doing his best to glare at the lawyer whose limbs he was tangled up in. He shifted so that he sat between his legs, his own draped across his hips and to the side. The attempt at a six am glower was deemed to be highly ineffectual based upon the fact that there was the dull blush of sleep still on his cheeks, his lower lip was stuck out slightly and he was trapped partway through a yawn. While the Canadian was probably trying to be angry-looking, the New Yorker just thought he was cute. "That's because the hipsters stole all that and more from the punks," he purred in reply, covering his mouth as he rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm. "Don't make me list off everything they've stolen."

Opening his mouth to make a comeback, Alfred found that he couldn't entirely come up with a valid retort; what he said was kind of true, in an odd sense. When growing up with Arthur during the late eighties and nineties, the older man had gone through a complete British Punk phase that had left his father fairly disturbed and his mother - Arthur's, not his own - positively amused. The teen had blathered all sorts of nonsense about anarchy, leftover crack, vinyls; had dyed his hair blue and red - Union Jack represent - and he had quite enjoyed all the things he had listed off that he said made Matthew a hipster. Thinking about this felt as though someone had turned on a big bright light. It was official: hipsters had stolen punk culture and made it some lameass shit. Then he huffed as well, blowing a chunk of hair out of his eyes and slumping a little, obviously not liking it when the artist was right. Laughter left the other and then trailed off slightly.

"You look like shit," Matthew murmured softly, removing the sweater from his body and pulling it over Alfred, helping the other as he slipped stiff limbs through the sleeves with a grimace. "Are you feeling okay?"

Alfred sniffed, rubbing at his nose and then grimacing. "I've been better," he said lowly, offering a smile but not getting one in return - just a stern, worried look. "Probably from falling in the lake and then sleeping out here."

A whine left the younger man. "Why didn't you wake me up then?" he demanded, crawling off of the American and standing, stretching lazily. Alfred found the suddenly lack of warmth against his stomach to be jarring and it was then he noticed that he had been shivering all that time. "God, you probably got pneumonia now and it's my fault." Offering his hand he helped Al stand up, gnawing upon his lower lip when the other grimaced at the soreness of his muscles; how they seized up and cramped painfully at the sudden movement.

"No, no, it's not your fault," Alfred reassured him. "When I saw you had fallen asleep, I just … I didn't want to wake you up. You were tired last night after all that hiking we did an-"

"And you weren't? Don't give me that bullshit, Princess," Matthew snarled hotly, glaring and taking his hand, tugging him harshly in the direction of the Escalade. There was to be no arguing with him about his point. Blue eyes turned downwards and broad shoulders slumped slightly. "The moment you started to get cold, or even doze off, you should have woken me up and made me go into the SUV with you. I wouldn't have objected; you might have had to drag me over, but there's no way I would have gotten pissed off at you for something as simple as taking care of your goddamn health."

Burying his face in the shoulder next to him, Jones sighed and blinked slowly, eyes practically burning in his skull while his sinuses wreaked havoc upon his breathing and was the instigator of the brutal tension in his forehead and temples. Maybe the Canadian was right; he had wanted to wake him up and head back over the the car to sleep, but he had never seen him look so at ease, so serene, in his entire time of knowing him. Even that time at Starbucks he hadn't looked as relaxed or at peace with the world as what he had at that very moment in time. So he had just said the hell with it and sucked it up. Now his body was paying the price for it - he felt warm all over, but he knew he was icy to the touch, his sinuses were murdering him slowly, his joints ached and throbbed, it was hard to breathe without hacking up a lung, and really, all he wanted was at least another few hours of sleep so that it would all wash off.

"I don't mind," he finally mumbled, arms sliding around the thin waist in front of him and he plastered his body to the others. Warmth. There was so much warmth. Couldn't get enough of it.

He felt Matthew chuckle rather than heard him, and a hand lightly prodded at his side. "Can I have the keys?" he asked politely. The anger the other had shown moments before had all but entirely dissipated.

Some half-hearted rummaging through his pockets produced the keys to the Hybrid and the next thing he knew he was sprawled off in the backseat, head in the Canadian's lap and a blanket draped over his body. He could feel the warmth seeping into his icy frame, could feel heat permeating his bones that suddenly felt brittle and old, and with Matthew lying beneath him as the most appealing pillow he had ever had in his life, the thought of sleeping felt so much better all of a sudden. Maybe now he'd actually get a decent amount of unconscious-time, considering his friend was practically babying him.

But that still didn't explain how he had gotten into the backseat of his car so damn fast.

Glancing up at Matthew, a look of confusion on his face as he ran his hands down over his cheeks and arched his back as he stretched, he huffed lightly. "What're you, a wizard?" he mumbled, words stringing themselves together as he tried to get out a few coherent sentences before he passed back out to sleep. From the way his eyes were drooping, they could both tell he was only going to last another few minutes at the most.

"Yeah, I'm totally magical. Fucking amazing, eh?" Readjusting the way he was seated, Matthew stretched out and the moment he did Alfred hauled himself up a little bit further so he could place his head on his chest, arms wrapped around his torso. Thin hands ran through his hair, down along his spine over all the curves and bumps masked by the thick sweater he wore and the equally warm, fleece blanket that covered him, before they settled at the small of his back. He folded his fingers together and kept them there in a way that held him protectively; as though he would never let go. And Alfred prayed that he would not.

Curling in against him, loving the warmth that came from his body, Alfred gave a hum of contentment. "You're c'mfortable," he somehow managed to get out, eyes slipping shut. One of Matthew's hands moved from his back to take off the lawyer's glasses and place them to the side. "And warm. So, so warm. Love it … 'n you."

There was a brief pause, and the hands on him tensed as he was pulled closer. "Go to sleep," he finally whispered into his ear before nuzzling lovingly at his temple, a hand sliding through his hair once more and toying with the ends before he placed it upon his shoulders, cradling him protectively against his chest. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

"Y'sure?" he asked, voice just a whisper. He felt so safe, but he just needed to make sure. Make certain that he would still be there. "Y'won't leave, will'y?"

"Never, Alfred. Never." The words were spoken so quietly he almost didn't hear them over the buzzing in his ears, but when they clicked into his addled brain, tired blue eyes positively lit up and he grinned stupidly before nuzzling at his jaw. God, he felt so stupid and teenage at the moment, but fuck it all. He hadn't felt like this before so he might as well be a teenager for all that mattered. Arms around him tightened even more and if it were at all possible, Alfred somehow managed to curl in closer to his friend's chest, face completely buried. He felt a slight pressure at the top of his head, something that felt like lips discreetly brushing against his scalp, and his cheeks flushed a little. "Yes, I'm sure. Now sleep; it's only six-thirty in the morning, alright? Don't make me tell you again."

"Mmkay."

Then he simply let his body go limp, eyes sliding shut while Matthew held him tightly, cheek pressed to the top of his head. The Canadian, on the other hand, was wide awake by this point and with absolutely no desire to go back to sleep, cheeks flushed slightly at how they were curled up together so pleasantly. Having pulled the half-asleep man into his lap without a second thought had been a bold move, at least he thought it had been, and for him to have just sunk in the way he had was a bit of a relief. Pressing another kiss to the top of his head when he was sure Al was asleep - not that it made a difference, considering the lawyer was out of it from sheer exhaustion and being so sick - he pressed his cheek back to the soft hair. Even his hair was cold, the fucking moron.

The man was an idiot to have stayed outside to sleep just because he didn't want to wake him up. Such a fucking idiot through and through, and the Albertan loved it and him so much it made his chest twinge. He fisted his hands into the material of the blanket and shut his eyes with a sigh.

Today, he had decided upon falling asleep last night, today he would grow a pair and ask Alfred to be his goddamn, stupid fucking American boyfriend because he was in love with the twit to the point that there was no going back. He didn't know when, but this would be the day he did it. Maybe he would ask them while they were driving. Or, maybe if they were going through some lovely, secluded area, he would ask them just so it would be stupid and teenage even though they were both adults (although at times that point remains to be debated) and memorable based on the way the place looked and not what was said. It was always the place and time that was remembered the clearest, because in a world where image was the most important factor to anything - and the artist was loathe of how everything was so damn aesthetic when words were the most important, at least to him.

Half of the time the words were never even remembered, especially when they should be.

But now he would let the American sleep for however long he needed to while he lay beneath him and mulled over the words he would hopefully find the nerve to stutter out before the day's end. Maybe this was what Gilbert had felt like when he had first asked him out when he was fourteen and the German-American was seventeen. Nervous as all hell, but excited beyond comprehension. Re-opening his eyes and slouching down further, the other not even stirring in the slightest, he sighed. Let the other sleep and see where things went from there; that was all he could do.

And sleep the other did. It was nearly noon before the man cracked his eyes open once more, stretching languidly before freezing, disoriented and slightly put-off by it; hadn't he fallen asleep outside with Matthew curled up in his lap? Then how the fuck did he get inside the Escalade? "Wh-"

"Ah, you're awake," came the soft voice from above him and quickly Alfred glanced up, smiling crookedly and curling back into Matthew and humming lightly. The artist must have dragged the- no, no, he remembered now; he had woken up, had a one-man Viking raiding party on his iPod and then the other had reamed him out and dragged him over to his SUV to sleep. Now it made a lot more sense to him. "How do you feel now?"

"Better," he mumbled into his chest, not lifting his head. He heard Matthew giggle - _fucking giggle _what was this - and nuzzle the crown of his skull, cheek resting there once more. "I don't feel like my body's on fire anymore, and my head doesn't hurt, either."

A hum of acknowledgement. "Good; you probably had a mild fever," he said lightly. "You were so out of it when we got over here; it was actually kind of funny." He felt Matthew move slightly and he gave a displeased grunt. Then the Canadian's face filled his line of vision, a small smile on his lips. "You don't look like shit anymore, either."

"Doucheball." Alfred puffed his cheeks, sitting up and stretching, keeping the blanket wrapped around his body at the same time. Leaning back against the seat he gave another short yawn and rubbed at his eyes before locating his glasses, perched on the arm rest between the two front seats. Slipping them on and blinking as the world came back into focus, he looked over at Matthew, who was staring at the roof of the vehicle, a look of concentration upon his fair face. He still looked tired as well, but not nearly as bad as what he had the day before. Then he realized something: "Did you take your pill yet?"

Matthew glanced over to him and then shook his head. "Don't want to," he said simply.

Arching a brow, the lawyer stared his friend down, expression pressing for an explanation; simply saying a childish 'do not want' did not sit well with him.

The Canadian huffed and then sat up, scooting over to curl up under the blanket with Alfred, skinny legs going to wrap around his waist and arms around his midsection. He flushed, but said nothing, waiting for the young man to explain. "My head feels perfectly clear, and I feel fine," he murmured. "Nothing to worry about, nothing making me nervous. There's nothing eating at me besides my stomach which is demanding food, and I just feel _normal_. I'm not taking a pill for something that's not bothering me."

"But then that throws off for when you _will_ need it," Alfred murmured quietly, looking down at him, a minute frown upon his face.

Looking up and glaring, this time a little more effectively, he shook his head. "I don't care," he snapped. "I'm not taking it when I don't need it; I hate how it throws everything off and just _ugh._ I _hate _pills. They just make me feel so wrong and disgusting. I don't feel like a person when I'm on them, and I hate that feeling so much."

After the small outburst Matthew fell silent, arms resting limply around Al's waist; no longer holding onto him, simply letting his cheek rest on his shoulder.

"I know what you mean," he murmured lowly. This caused Matthew to lift his head to watch the other, a confused expression on his face as if to say '_what the fuck are you talking about?_' The lawyer spared him a glance before turning his gaze to stare out between the two seats in front of them and out the windshield.

"I was on medications for some hyperactivity 'disorder' when I was ten, and then I went through a bout of depression when I was sixteen. I think they had me on Prozac for a few years. Or was it Ativan? Yeah, it was Prozac." He gave a hollow laugh, eyes vapid and shoulders slumped. "I'm pretty sure my father's answer to everything was medication, simply because it was the easiest route to go without him actually having to lift a finger and care for someone."

Matthew said nothing, but discreetly slipped his hand into Alfred's. The other hesitated for a moment but then held onto it, his grip strong.

"My mom didn't want me on anything - especially the Ritalin when I was ten. She basically told my father to leave me alone; just let me be a kid. Kids were hyper; not supposed to listen and do things at the drop of a hat. Supposed to play and have fun. He didn't listen. Then again, he never listened to what Mom had to say," he gave a bitter sigh, swallowing against the lump forming in his throat. "I was on that until I was thirteen or fourteen, and the kind of person it just made me … I don't even know. I just hated it. I found it impossible to have fun, nothing felt nice. The only time I ever really felt like a kid was when my father was gone to wherever it was he disappeared to every now and then, and my mom would let me go the entire time without taking my pills. All I had to do in return for her was keep my room clean and eat my vegetables, which I would do anyway. It was amazing. She treated me like a kid, and I felt human, y'know?

"Then they divorced when I was sixteen, and Jackass somehow managed to get custody of me over my mom. I don't know how, considering he wasn't even capable of taking proper care of me in the first place. When my mom lost the custody battle, _Arthur _and his own mother even tried to get me into their family, but they couldn't. It just goes to show that the justice system caters to those with more money than what they need." Alfred gave a light shrug and then rested his head back. "When I got put on my meds for depression, no one was really there to help me get used to it; I refused to see a doctor unless it was necessary. Father never gave a shit so he never reminded me about when I had to take them, so I was basically fucked up for about three or four months until I managed to get into a routine with it. I was on Prozac for about three years, until I was nineteen. Basically until I could move out and do my own thing without Daddy Warbucks hovering over my shoulder and scrutinizing every little thing I did. I think that might be why I fucked around in my first year of university; probably why I managed to go so downhill without even realizing it in the first place."

"I think that explains a lot," Mattie said quietly, watching him with a melancholic look upon his face. Alfred didn't like how saddened he was; hated it when he was doing anything but smiling. "Why you feel the need to play hero for everyone; why you're so bent on making sure things are right wherever you can make them; why you put everyone else's happiness before your own."

Alfred swallowed thickly and tightened his grip on the smaller, delicate hand in his own. "I just … I just don't want to see people unhappy when I spent so much time as a kid like it," he whispered, voice breaking. He fell silent and looked away from Matthew, eyes shut for a moment before he opened them again. "And if I can do something about it then I damn well will. Even if they don't quite like it at first, or ever for that matter."

"Well, I think you've done a good job playing hero," was the response he received. The whispered words made his eyes widen behind his glasses and he looked down to the Canadian that was staring at the blanket in the same spot where their hands were twined together. "But maybe you should share and let someone play hero for you, at least just once in your life?"

Chuckling, he smiled. "Maybe," he said lowly. "Maybe I will one of these days."

And Matthew wanted to tell Alfred that he was the best hero he had ever had, and would ever have because frankly he did not need anyone else, but the words remained locked in his throat; at an impasse with his vocal cords. So instead of stuttering and grappling with the words he couldn't form, he smiled and let go of his hand in order to stretch languidly, back cracking from the movement before he flopped back against the seat with a muffled yawn.

"I'm _hungry_," he blurted out.

Typical.

Alfred laughed, and everything felt normal again. "You're a bottomless pit," the American muttered.

"And you're a fine one to talk," Mattie shot back. "Anyway, don't rag on me for being a pig when I've spent the past two years barely eating and being almost thirty-five pounds underweight, and McKnight told me that I still need to gain at least another ten before he'll be happy. I'm going to eat as much goddamn fucking food as I want, capiche?"

"Chillax, bro. I think you need to gain the weight as well; you're still a little too skinny for my liking as well." Without warning - because this sort of thing was done without informing prior-to - he pinched at his side and gathered whatever body fat he possibly could and tugged. At least he couldn't feel the artist's ribs anymore. A shrill squeak left him and Alfred ducked out of the way as Mattie made a swing at him. Holding up his hands and snorting, he edged away from the man seated next to him before outright crawling through the center and out into the driver's seat.

Joining him a few moments later, wiggling with ease between the two seats and flopping down on the passenger side as the vehicle was started. "There's a town about two hours from here we can stop in to get some lunch at," he said, hauling his seatbelt across his chest as the Canadian did the same. "We can wander around for an hour and then we can head back into the city. How does that sound?"

Nodding slowly, Matthew grinned. "Sounds good to me," he said with a shrug, picking up Alfred's iPod and searching through the contents. "I'd be happy to eat anything right about now."

"…Oh really?"

"Shut up, you fucking pig."

Alfred burst out laughing and threw the Escalade into drive, backing up and turning the SUV around to drive up along the gravel path they had come down the day before. This time the trip wouldn't seem as long; half an hour would feel like ten minutes. That was usually the way it was when you didn't want to leave somewhere and go back to where you were supposed to be. You didn't necessarily have to belong there, but you still had to. And it was something both of the men were loathe of.

The sky overhead was a crystal clear shade of blue, not a cloud covering the vast expanse above them. The trees on either side of them went untouched for miles and both men secretly hoped the Escalde would break down and leave them stranded there for at least another few hours.

Once they finally pulled back onto the main road, the crunch of gravel no longer beneath the tires as they came in contact with smooth, hard blacktop, a sigh left Matthew and he slumped a little.

"You don't want to go back either?" Alfred asked softly, fingertips resting limply on the bottom of the steering wheel as they coasted down a slight hill.

He simply shook his head before sighing and tilting it back to rest on the headrest. "If I could stay out here for the rest of my life and live as a hermit in the woods with little to no human contact for the rest of my existence, then I'd be the happiest person on the face of the earth. Hell, I'd even be able to avoid tax season and it would be splendid and there would be happiness all around to share with my little forest friends. I'd be like Snow White."

"Could I come and crash your party?" Alfred asked cheerfully, glancing over at him as he shifted gears.

"It wouldn't be any fun without you, man," Matthew said in a sage, all-knowing voice. "But we'd also have to give Gilbert the address - would a house in the middle of the forest in the middle of nowhere have an address?"

"That's a good question," Al hummed. "Maybe you'd use a tree with a hollow spot as your mail box and then you could just stick a number on the fucker so you can tell it apart from the rest of the forest and then you can say your home has an address."

"Your sarcasm is showing."

"Really? I couldn't tell. Thanks for pointing it out, Pet, I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Don't try too hard; you might get boring and frankly no one likes a boring person."

"Would you still like me if I was boring?"

The question caught Matthew off-guard but he laughed all the same. "Course I would," he said brightly, smiling over at the driver. "Only thing is I'd have to tie you up and beat you silly with the Fun Stick until you're unboring."

"What about the Magic Stick?"

"Sorry, but I'm not the love doctor. It's the Fun Stick or nothing, Princess."

"… And the Fun Stick it is! Sounds like it's a good plan to me."

Matthew laughed and simply turned up the music, drumming his hands on the dashboard and bobbing his head in time to whatever it was that was playing. Just coasting along the road as they crested down another hill, Alfred had sunk back comfortably in his seat as the other sang along lightly to the music playing, window rolled all the way down and his blonde hair being whipped around his face from the wind generated by the vehicle's momentum.

They were about half-way there when Alfred noticed it.

His palms were sweating; there was a knot in his stomach; his nose felt dry and he felt as adgitated as all hell. How long had it been, anyway? Running a broad hand along his unshaven jaw, feeling the slight scruff there prickle his skin, he gnawed on his lower lip, blinking sluggishly. Three days. Three days since his last couple of lines of cocaine.

Of all the times for him to get a craving for the drug, it had to be now, when they were well out of the city, and while Matthew was with him, nonetheless. But, frankly, he needed it. Even just a small dose to tie him over until he got back to his apartment. Otherwise he wouldn't be fit the share oxygen with.

You thought Matthew was bad before he actually enjoyed Alfred's company? That was nothing compared to the way the American could get when faced with a cocaine craving.

Absently flexing his hands on the steering wheel, breathing out slowly through his nose as he watched the needle on the speedometer creep up along into the higher numbers, he sat there and silently stewed, trying to keep a smile on his face despite how hard it was getting to be. As long as he relaxed and acted the way he usually did and didn't let any moodiness, anxiety or downright grumpiness show, then he would be fine. Once they got to whatever restaurant it was, he'd just make sure there was no one in the bathroom, do a few lines - there was a small packet of coke in his bag, if he remembered correctly - and wait for a few minutes for the initial sensation to take over before he went back out.

It was nothing, and nothing would come of it. Anyway, Matthew wouldn't know the difference between him being high or not, right?

Right?

There was a soft, heckling doubt-filled voice at the back of his mind, one that told him not to do this because it would be the worst decision of his entire life because Mattie was far from stupid - far from oblivious - and he would regret it like nothing else. But no, he pushed the voice of reason away, tightened his grip and forced the tension out of his shoulders.

He'd do his three lines and that would be the end of it.

"Do you mind if I have a smoke?" Alfred asked, swallowing thickly. Maybe the nicotine would calm his nerves down for the moment; or at least by just a little bit.

"Roll down your window a bit, too," he instructed firmly, sighing lightly. "I can't really tell you what to do in your own car."

He snorted, eyes never leaving the road as he leaned down to grab his pack of du Maurier cigarettes, jamming one into his mouth and lighting up the end of it as he sat up. "Never stopped you before," he said lightly, rolling down his window a bit as he took a slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he tilted his head slightly in the other direction to exhale.

Mattie sniggered and shook his head. "Well, okay yeah, maybe you're right about that," he muttered with an eye roll. Then he peered at the driver. "You okay? You seem sort of stressed all of a sudden."

Shit.

"I just have to pee _really _badly, and having to pee makes me stressed."

Staring at him blankly, the Canadian looked away for a moment, frowned and then looked back at him. "Uh, wow," he said. "Why don't we just pull over to the side of the road an-"

"No, that's disgusting," Alfred said, wondering just what the hell had made him use that as some sort of valid excuse. "I can _not_ pee on the side of the road. Like, that is just so wrong."

"What kind of dude can't take a piss on the side of the road? You're such a fucking pussy."

"And you're an asshole."

"Dickface."

"Douchewad."

"Hoser."

"Eh."

Smacking him hard on the upper arm, Matthew scowled while Alfred nearly choked on his cigarette, laughing. "You always have to resort to saying 'eh' or something. Why not 'aboot' or some shit like that, you fucktard?"

"Because I love your reaction every time," Alfred said with a broad smile on his face. He wasn't sure if it was the cigarette or the inane discussion, but he felt a little bit better. Everything felt lighter; like he didn't weigh an extra thirty pounds. The agitation was still there, and his hands were still trembling, but he didn't feel nearly as awful. It wouldn't last much longer, though. He still needed the few lines before the agitation grew once more. A few lines and that would be it for the next couple of days until he started to crave it again.

"Jerk," Matthew mumbled before slumping down in the passenger seat, the driver laughing once more around the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

Reaching over blindly to tousle his hair, Alfred's hand instead came in contact with his face. "Oh, that wasn't what I had been aiming for," he chirped, slowing down as they started to come within the limits of a nearby town. He glanced to the clock on the stereo and hummed thoughtfully; they had already been driving for an hour and a half. They should be entering one of the small towns sometime soon. Instead of moving his hand to his hair, he simply smeared it all over the Canadian's face, earning a splutter of anger. "This'll do just nicely."

Clearly, Matthew Williams did not think that was the case.

He gave a shriek of disgust when Mattie blatantly licked his hand, making an amused 'nyah' as he did so.

"That's what you get," he said smugly, sitting back with a smirk on his face. "Nobody rubs their hand all over my face and smudges the shit out of my glasses without getting licked. Got it?"

Alfred wiped the saliva off of his hand and onto Matthew's cheek in one nonchalant swipe, eyes never leaving the road as he did so, smirking at the curse that left the other. Then he removed his cigarette from his lip and tapped the ash from the tip out the window before taking another drag, humming thoughtfully to himself.

In a matter of no time they were pulling off the main strip of isolated interstate and onto a road that had more than likely seen better days. It was faded and cracked in areas; stop signs and the speed limit signs were weather worn, as were the signs that illustrated drivers to what various rest stops the town had - no big name places to eat like a McDonalds or anything, but just some local, 24 hour diners - and the few inns that were there. Cheap places you wouldn't stay at for more than a single night. They passed a sign that was almost falling apart that served as advertisment for a taxi company, and the two men exchanged a look. There wasn't even a sign that told them what the name of the town they were approaching was.

"Welcome to Silent Hill," Matthew murmured in a low voice, rolling up his window and checking to make sure his door was locked once Alfred chucked his partially-smoked cig out the window.

"Population: Questionable," he said with a sigh, doing the same as the man in the passenger seat.

"Of course we chose the sketchiest, scariest, prime horror film location place to stop at for lunch," he said with a sigh, glancing out back to check and make sure the back doors were locked as well.

"I have no problem with turning around now and finding somewhere else to stop and eat," Alfred offered, easing on the brake and looking over to Mattie. Okay, well, that was a lie; problem being he needed his cocaine and he was getting to the point of needing it _now._ But if Mattie was uncomfortable with it, then he would forgo his drug just a little bit longer - at least until his insides threatened to murder him.

For a moment Matthew was quiet and he didn't say anything until the SUV had rolled to a complete stop and the two of them just sat there, the Canadian with his arms folded across his chest and the American leaning forward upon the steering wheel and peering down the road with clouded eyes.

"I think … I think we should be good," he said finally. When he spoke, Alfred eased on the gas once more, hands clenching the wheel a little tighter than necessary. "It's odd, though; there's no out-going traffic, or any in-coming traffic beside us." Then, much to his surprise, Matthew rounded sharply, seatbelt straining tightly against his torso. "Oh man, imagine if it's actually an abandoned town or something! Wouldn't that be fucking neat? Fuck, too bad I don't have a camera or anything because then I could totally borrow Antonio or Gil's dark room and develop a ton of pictures and then it would be, like, amazing."

Distracted from the road momentarily by the Canadian's sudden, excited outburst, he chuckled and shook his head, eyes returning to the road. "How does that even make you excited?"

"I … I 'unno," Mattie said as he squirmed in his seat, a gleam of anticipation in his eyes. "I love exploring, so why not explore an abandoned town?"

"There's plenty of good reasons as to why we shouldn't explore an aba- why is the road gravel all of a sudden?" Both men let out twin curses as the Escalade bucked and dipped dangerously in the ruts in the road which was, for some reason, a poorly-made gravel one.

"Fucking hell," Matthew snapped, setting his hand down firmly on the dashboard to keep from bucking forward as the Escalade pitched dangerously yet again. Although the driver was tempted to slam on the brake, that wouldn't do them any good should the vehicle flip. "I thought you said this piece of shit was a four wheel drive?"

"Hey, don't hurt my baby's feelings!" Alfred retorted, slowing down a bit in order to hopefully keeping the jerking to a minimum. The action did minimal so he simply sped up again with a muttered 'fuck it'. The nose of the SUV dipped dangerously and there was a sharp, loud crunch, and neither of them knew whether or not it came from the road they were driving over or if it came from the front of the vehicle. Both of them grimaced.

"That didn't sound too good," Mattie murmured.

"And Captain Obvious strikes again," Al muttered beneath his breath, massaging the bridge of his nose deciding that it would probably be for the betterment of his vehicle should he reduce his speed to well below the limit. Getting out and walking would have been their best bet, but frankly, Alfred wasn't too keen on leaving a vehicle that had cost him almost a year's salary in the middle of nowhere, where even OnStar probably wouldn't even be able to find them.

All Matthew did was stick out his tongue.

Lapsing back into silence, they occasionally cringed as the Hybrid dropped down into a particularly harsh rut or crater in the road, expletives slipping past the driver's tightly-pinched lips in the process.

"I'm going to murder whoever took the pavement off of this road," the American snarled as soon as the town came into view - and it looked as though it fit the part of a horror film very well.

"Well, at least you don't have to worry about dealing with a criminal prosecutor? Hell, you could even be your own lawyer," he said somewhat brightly, smiling weakly at the dark expression on the driver's face that was vaguely reminiscent of someone close to committing homicide.

"Actually, it would be taken to a county DA, considering who I am and all," Al sniffed, rolling his eyes. "And I can't act as my own lawyer." Then he paused. "Or maybe I can; we learned that at Harvard, I know that for a fact, but I can't remember for shit if that's the case or not. Either way, this town and road look like shit and have more than likely seen better days. Are you _positive_ you want to stop here, man? I could cook us something when we get back to NYC."

Matthew shook his head. "I think we'll be fine," he said cheerfully, crossing his legs and looking out the window as they drove slowly through the were cars, some newer models, probably 2007 and 2008 makes of different lines, but for the most part the cars looked old and as though they had gone through the mill, just like the rest of the town. Colours on the different buildings were beginning to fade, lawns were overgrown in some areas; different buildings and even some homes were boarded up. The place looked desolate, through and through.

It wasn't done in a trashy way - as there wasn't much in terms of vandalism - but with no one really around, no one really out and about despite it being only a Saturday afternoon, the two men couldn't help but wonder if the town had been abandoned and everything left behind them.

"Maybe the world ended overnight and we just happened to miss it?" Alfred suggested with a small smile, twiddling his fingers on the steering wheel as he slowed down at a stop sign before speeding up a bit again.

The theory was instantly rebuked when another car turned onto the road and went past them, slowing down to the point of almost stopping as they went past before speeding up again.

"What do you think that was all about?" Mattie asked, peering into the rear view mirror, watching as the car - a gray Sedan - turned down another side street.

Alfred followed the line of vision of his friends, and gave a grunt-shrug combination. "Who knows," he said. "Maybe they're just not used to visitors?"

"Probably not," the artist said with a snort, expression growing clouded as they drove past a boarded up police station, of all things. Upon one of the slabs of wood covering the windows, there was a message spray-painted there in a simple black scrawl:

"_Hope never abandons you; you abandon it."_

Fitting, but it seemed to be a message that came a few months too late.

He hummed softly. "This place is depressing," he said quietly, slumping in his seat a little, folding his hands in his lap and picking absent-mindedly at his cuticle. "I hate seeing places that are so run down like this. It's just … I don't know. Not so much heartbroken, but close enough to it."

Alfred nodded. "It's saddening to see a place, especially in somewhere as modern and shit as America, to have gone this downhill."

Pulling the vehicle into the lot of the first diner they came across - Tina's 24-Hour Bar and Grill - the first thing they noticed was that the neon 24 hour sign hanging haphazardly from a wire in the window had been turned off and beside it had been placed a board that said when the diner was open for business. 24 hours with a closing time. Something like that was just an example of sheer brilliance. Glancing at each other, they shrugged and got out of the car, Matthew stretching lazily while Al leant back and popped his spine before twisting his head from side-to-side in order to crack his neck.

"You go on in and grab us a table, alright?" he said to the Canadian with a smile. "I'm just going to grab my wallet and set the alarms on this."

"Oh?" Matthew blinked, confused for a moment - it was as though he had spaced out that fast. At this the lawyer's smile faltered. "Oh! Yeah, sure, no problem. I'll order for us, because I already know you're gonna want a hamburger, no pickles and extra cheese, with coke for a drink."

The smile on his face brightening again and a laugh escaping him, Alfred nodded. "You know me a little too well," he teased. "What are you, my wife?"

"Well, considering I can fold your socks better than you can, I feel like it half the time," Matt shot back with a grin and a light blush forming on his cheeks before he turned on his heel and headed over and into the diner that was supposedly a 24 Hour place that closed at ten on week nights.

Lips dipping into a frown, Alfred waited for a moment as to make sure that the Canadian wasn't going to come back out of the restaurant. When it was obvious that the younger man wasn't planning on making a return trip to the SUV anytime soon, he opened the back door and grabbed his messenger bag, working fast and glancing about him with a certain level of paranoia reserved for someone knowing damn well that they shouldn't be doing what they were about to.

Unclipping the hasps, he opened the bag and started to dig through it, pushing past the still-damp clothing - he would have to wash it and dry it when they got back to keep the material of the bag from going sour - and felt around the sides. Fingers brushing up against a cold zipper, he grasped the little slider and tugged it open with one swift jerk of the wrist. When it was opened all the way, he groped around the little inside compartment past a container of Aspirin and pulled out a small packet of cocaine, and inside of that was the razorblade he usually used to cut the drug, and the small mirror - wrapped in tissue - that he used to snort the drug off of. He wasn't going to be careless when it came to his drug intake, if that made it any better for him to live with; a cheap sort of consolation prize for a large jackpot, or so to speak.

Quickly pocketing the drug and grabbing his wallet as he gave another quick glance about the parking lot, he stuffed the leather money holder into the pocket of his sweater before slamming the door shut, using the device on the end of his car keys to alarm the vehicle. He doubted that anyone would be trying to take the Escalade anytime soon, but he couldn't be too careful, right?

His stomach turned and he glanced to the windows of the diner and then the dirt parking lot he stood in before turning on his heel and heading into the cheap food place.

Fast and easy, that's all it would be because that's all it usually was since the accident with the heroin back in December. Nothing too drastic.

Stepping into the diner and easily making his way into the establishment without catching the ever-watchful and easily distracted eye of his friend - who was in the process of ordering their lunch from a tall, thin waitress with a mess of scraggly red hair - Alfred slid into the restroom and shut the door firmly behind him, exhaling heavily. He hadn't been seen by the other which, right now, was the most important thing. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he stood there in the empty washroom; his palms were sweating and there was a slight chill going through his body - almost like some kind of adrenaline was beginning to kick in; he had never done cocaine anywhere other than in the privacy of his condo, and he had never thought it would happen. But here he was, stood in a small, grimey space in a diner that was stuck in a broken down middle of nowhere, bag filled with cocaine in his pocket and every intention of doing the drug. There was only two stalls in the washroom - a wheelchair one and one for anyone else - and the mirror that was there was chipped in places. The counter was clean for the most part, and the wall it was attached to had chunks of paint missing in different places.

His stomach flip-flopped for a brief moment and he gnawed on his lower lip, but caught himself before he could really do anything to it.

'_All you need to do is breathe, Alfred. Everything's going to be cool. Just breathe,_' he told himself sternly as he approached the counter, setting the coke on the surface. He turned the taps on bust, mainly hot water running, and slid his hands beneath the steady flow of liquid, grimacing. Removing his hands once they were raw from scalding water, he wiped them off on his jeans and then grabbed a paper towel, dousing it in soap and running it beneath the water to scrub off the portion of counter he was going to use.

Just because he was going to snort shit off of a counter in a washroom in the middle of nowhere, it didn't mean he had to be a total skeeze about it.

Opening the bag and removing the tissue-wrapped mirror, he dusted the white powder clinging to it off and back into the bag, licking the substance that stubbornly clung to his finger when it was clear. Then he set the mirror down upon the counter and, taking the fairly dull razor blade from the bag, he dumped a small bit of the drug onto the mirror and began to slice and divide it up into four, equal lines. The man paused for a moment when he saw that his hand was trembling and he took a slow breath, massaging the bridge of his nose and removing his glasses, setting them down on the counter.

Rolling up the sleeves of his sweater, he plucked the small straw out of the bag and dusted off the ends before letting his eyes flutter shut as he set one end to a nostril and the other to the powder. A few seconds, that was all it would take.

Quickly inhaling the first two lines, he hesitated a moment as he felt his ears cloud over for a brief moment, masking the sound of the door groaning as it opened.

He was partway through the third line when he was jerked out of what he was doing by a voice that was no more than a weak whisper.

"A-_Alfred_?"

Lifting his head, the straw clattering from his fingers to the countertop, the colour drained from the American's face as he quickly straightened, trying to hide the drugs even though he knew that it would make no difference. Jamming on his glasses as the drugs began to settle in his system, he rounded sharply, not even cringing as the mirror hit the floor and shattered.

Matthew had shut the door behind him and the look upon his face was unreadable, which was what scared Alfred the most; he had grown so used to him finally showing what he was feeling, finally letting himself be read, that for this mask to go back up was almost frightening. He couldn't tell what the other was thinking. But from the tenseness in his jaw, the way the muscles there spasmed, it was easy to tell that the artist was royally pissed with the lawyer.

"M-Mattie, I…" he voice grew choked and he leant back against the counter, looking away from the stare from the other that was growing angrier and angrier by the moment.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

"You what?" he hissed, venom laced into each word. He grimaced at the tone of voice, and his reaction only spurring the younger man on further in his anger. "You _what_, Alfred? How much longer were you planning on keeping something as as … as _serious _as this from me, huh? How much fucking longer?"

Alfred's voice hitched when he tried to speak again, and instead of saying anything, he ran a hand through his hair and tugged at it, frustrated. This wasn't how he intended for him to find out - if ever, really. "I … didn't …" This Matthew was so much like the one from five or six months ago, before they knew each other; when the Canadian was practically hostile and all Alfred wanted was to be friends.

He was terrified now that everything might be gone.

The man pressing the door shut sneered darkly. "Didn't what? Didn't expect me to come in?" he demanded coldly, expression still blank. The only thing betraying the obvious rage he was emanating was the way he spoke, the tenseness of his shoulders and the way his indigo eyes burned as they had narrowed into dark slits. "Didn't expect me to come in here and find you like this?"

He was so right that it hurt. There was no sense in lying to him about it because something like that would only anger him even more than what he already was. While Alfred had dealt with a pissed off Matthew before, and more than once, those had only been trivial things angering him; never over something as serious and detrimental as this.

Numbly, Alfred nodded in agreement, unable to look at his friend any longer. The high had finally kicked in, but now it made no difference because he couldn't even feel it. The drug was a placebo to everything else that had finally, after a little over a year or so, failed him to no foreseeable conclusion. Tears blurred over his vision and he looked away, face turned from the Canadian as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Maybe he could direct a physical pain elsewhere. This wasn't supposed to happen; never. The center of his chest hurt so much and his throat was burning from the tears he was struggling to keep back.

Matthew said nothing now, just stared at the floor and chewed on his lower lip. The tightness had left his shoulders for now they had slumped altogether and, weakly, he sagged against the door.

"I …" he laughed bitterly and shook his head, curls bobbing from the movement and swaying around his narrow, pale face. From where he was stood, Al could see the man's eyes were watery and he felt another pang of guilt resonate deep in his chest. "I can't believe I was going to ask you today." He made a choked noise and covered his mouthing, shaking his head once more and looking away.

Something curled in Alfred's gut and because of it he felt sick to his stomach. "Ask me what?" he asked, mouth going dry. He couldn't have meant by that what the lawyer thought he did. Oh, Christ, he just couldn't have.

"It doesn't matter," Mattie whispered, biting down on his lip before straightening. There was a cold look in his eyes once more, but this time it was that same impassive glare he used to get before they were friends. Before they were _anything._ "Not now, at least."

Alfred thought he was going to be sick upon hearing that.

_No_. Oh, no.

No, no, no, no, _no._

Oh sweet fuck, Matthew had meant what he had thought.

"Matthew, please, I-"

"I _don't_ want to hear it, Alfred," he choked out, setting his hand back down on the knob as Alfred sank down onto the bathroom floor, knees pressed to his chest and his face buried in his hands. "Let's just have something to eat and go back to New York. That's all I want to do now, got it?"

All he did was nod in response before glancing up and over to the Canadian. "Sure," he said quietly, biting down on his thumb until tears sprung up into his eyes from the pain. "Sure thing."

"Your nose is bleeding, by the way. You might want to clean up before you come back out."

Pressing his fingers to his nostrils, when he took them away he was a little surprised to find them coated with slick, warm red blood. The nosebleed had gone completely unnoticed until he had pointed it out to him. He made a thoughtful noise before staring blankly across the room. Nothing else was said between either of them. When Matthew left the room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sort of finality that the American would have only expected from a sappy book or movie, a strangled sob left him despite the fact he wasn't actually crying. But God did his chest ever hurt. Crawling under the counter and dying wouldn't even bring him relief to what he felt.

He had fucked up before. Alfred knew that damn well. There had been many instances where he had fucked up to nuclear proportions.

But this was the epitome of fucking up. The definition of crashing and burning. A total failure with absolutely no reason to live anymore. If anyone set the standards, or made the new ones, it was him.

Even though throwing himself off a ledge in the Grand Canyon wouldn't do him any good, at the moment it was tempting. _Very _tempting.

Think 'a saucy Latina prostitute getting off in the middle of the road' tempting.

Sometime later, when he had cleaned up the mess he had made of himself from his bloody nose and when he accidentally shoved the bag of cocaine, the mirror and everything else to the floor, Alfred wandered out into the main sitting area, scanning the room with tired eyes before he located the Canadian seated in a booth by the front window.

Bracing himself, he trudged over, hands in his pockets as he slipped into a spot across from the artist that was staring impassively at the table before them as though the initials carved into the table they were seated at was the most interesting thing he had ever lain eyes upon.

Neither man spoke a single word to the other; Alfred didn't know if it was the silence that was going to do him in, or the fact that the artist wouldn't even acknowledge his presence. Maybe it was a combination of both that was doing it to him. Setting his head down onto the table, he rested his cheek against the cold surface and stared out the window. He could still feel the cocaine in his system, but it was already beginning to wear off faster than it usually would. Cheapest fucking placebo he had ever encountered.

He jolted sharply when he felt a hand in his hair, spindly fingers gently running through the locks, and then when he realized that it was only his friend, he relaxed almost instantly. His eyes fluttered shut at the feeling and he bit the inside of his mouth as the fingers moved slowly from his hair and to trail down along his jaw, thumb brushing against it before his hand settled there altogether, no longer moving with the exception of the thumb that continued to doodle soft, tender circles on his jawbone. Alfred blushed when he heard the other sigh lightly and he glanced upwards, heart clenching tightly in his chest when he saw Matthew wiping at his eyes, which were bloodshot and wet. This wasn't right. He bit on his lip and sat up, placing his hands in his lap and hunching forward a little, like a child scorned. There was no way he could even look at the younger man, knowing he had made him cry - even if only a little bit.

Clearing his throat and swallowing against the burning lump in his throat, Alfred blinked rapidly. "Mattie," he said quietly, taking a pale, thin hand in his own and grasping it tightly. "Please, just listen to me. I-"

Retracting his hand and shaking his head, Matthew placed his hands in his lap. "Not here," he murmured, not looking at the desperate American across from him. When Alfred opened his mouth as though he were going to protest, the Canadian gave a subtle nod of the head in the direction of the counter, where two cooks and the waitress talked animatedly, occasionally glancing over to the two men that were more than likely the only people from out-of-town that were seated in the diner.

Understanding and nodding, Al sighed and rested back against the old material of the booth, picking at the knee of his jeans as he watched the woman approach them with a tray of food destined for them. A burger for Alfred, accompanied by fries and Coke - terrible choice in drink, he now realized - while Matthew had simply gotten a burger, water and no fries.

Setting their plates down before them, the waitress gave a toothy smile. Alfred couldn't help but feel a small smile tweak at his own lips for a brief moment, but it didn't get much further than that. His friend, on the other hand, just accepted the food with a quiet 'thank you' before hesitantly picking up the burger and taking a tiny bite from it.

"We don't get many visitors 'round here," the woman said brightly as she picked her tray back up. "Not many people come 'round since the Recession started and the police station got shut down. S'pretty much a ghost town these days."

Alfred and Matthew glanced at one another. Well, that explained a lot. "We were just passing through and we were pretty hungry," Al said with a shrug, picking up a fry and putting it in his mouth. He hummed thoughtfully; homemade fries. Beautiful. He glanced over to the other to see that he had yet to take another bite of his burger.

The waitress smiled sweetly and nodded. "Well, you guys c'mon over for your bill whenever your ready, and if either of you need refills on your drinks just holler on out and I'll come over and get your glasses." And with that she sauntered away and over to another table, where two older men were smoking cigarettes, chatting quietly around their respective cups of coffee and playing chess.

While he didn't know how he managed to eat the food in front of him considering there was a giant knot in the center of his gut, the young artist seemed to have absolutely no problem with eating what was there. In fact, he made the subtle move of plucking a few fries off of the New Yorker's plate until the other noticed and, with a small chuckle, dumped a few more on the other's plate. Someone might as well eat them.

Not another word was exchanged between the two until it was time for them to go, when Alfred asked if Matthew wanted him to pay the bill. The other didn't reply, but shot him a cold look which immediately prompted the lawyer to pocket his wallet once more and head out to the Escalade while his friend paid for their meal.

He was just getting ready to get into the driver's seat when Matthew grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him away with a sharp glare. "Dude, I just caught you snorting fucking _cocaine_," he snarled. "Don't even _try_ to tell me that you're fine to drive. Go sit in the other seat. _**Now**_."

Keeping any possible comments to himself, Alfred handed him the keys and wandered around to the other side of the vehicle and heaved himself in. Neither of them made eye contact, and when their hands brushed momentarily as they both moved for the stereo at the exact same time, the Canadian quickly retracted his hand and put the Escalade in reverse, flooring it out of the parking lot and back onto the strip of roadway before throwing the vehicle into drive.

Picking up the iPod and gluing his eyes to the screen as they made their way out of the small town that had successfully ruined everything - Alfred wanted to blame it on the place but he knew that was just plain childish of him, even if it did feel like it would make the perfect scapegoat - between him and the guy that definitely would have been his first attempt at having an actual relationship for the first time in his godforsaken life. Everything. Ruined.

He didn't quite know whether he should laugh or cry to the point of throwing up, or maybe that feeling of nausea was being derived from being on a bumpy road.

But either way he was tempted to tell Matthew to pull over to the side of the road so he could get on his knees, bend over and vomit until his insides burned.

Either way, he said nothing; choosing instead to hold his peace and settle in for what was bound to be the most awkward and somewhat agonizing drive in his entire life.

Which, obviously, it turned out to be.

Almost four hours in the car and not once did Matthew look over to the passenger in the car. And all Alfred could do was look over at him, from the corner of his eye, to see what the man was doing; to see if he might have been about to say something, or to pull over so they could talk through the mess of a grave he had unwittingly dug for himself.

But there was absolutely nothing from the driver the entire way out the freeway, and even once they got back into the city - the one place neither of them wanted to be, but for the first time in a long time it felt like home and all Al wanted to do was crawl into his condo, tail between his legs and curl up in his bed with Oreo, his darling kitten, and sob until he was a dry and bitter mess.

They were probably five minutes away from Matthew's apartment before either of them spoke again, and when the silence was broken, Alfred couldn't help but wince (the music had been turned off almost two hours prior based on the fact that neither of them cared to listen to, and the American could not settle on one damn song to listen to at the time being).

"I can't believe you never told me," Matthew whispered, flexing his hands on the steering wheel. His voice wavered as he spoke and the other could not bring himself to look over and face the Canadian. "I-I thought you trusted me."

Alfred swallowed thickly. "Mattie, I do trust you. More than you know. It's just tha-"

"Then why didn't you ever tell me? You think I don't deserve to know whether or not my best friend is addicted to a fucking drug that could kill him just like that?" He snapped his fingers as though trying to emphasize the point he was making.

"How the hell would I bring up something like that?" Alfred demanded, the words being spoken with a little more harshness than what he had initially intended; he realized this when Matthew cringed and his shoulders slumped. He cursed. "Fuck, Matthew, I've wanted to tell you that for a while now but I just … I don't know. I couldn't find the words or the right time to bring it up."

"There is no right or wrong time," he said weakly, rubbing at his face as his breath hitched. Alfred glanced over and felt his heart sink. "You just say it. You have no idea how much it hurts, knowing that you couldn't come to me and talk about this. It actually kills me."

Alfred said nothing. Instead, he simply stared at his hands as he wrung them to the point of rawness.

Despite the discouraging silence of the other, Matthew continued. "I've n-never asked anything from you. N-Nothing at all," he stuttered out, wiping at his eyes with the palms of his hands as he slowed to a stop outside of his apartment. But he did not get out of the vehicle. "I just hoped that, you know, that y-you would be honest with me. That you wouldn't be afraid to c-come to me and talk if you needed to get something off your chest. About anything. That you w-wouldn't hesitate to t-talk if you needed someone to talk to. But I can …" he inhaled, covering his face for a brief moment before lowering his hands again. "But I can tell that's not the case. W-Which is okay, I mean if you can't trust me enough to talk to me then whatever. Sh-Shit happens, right?"

"Matthew, ple-"

"_No_, Alfred," he snapped, voice finally breaking. He gave a sob and covered his mouth as though he wished to take the sound back. "I c-can't watch you do this to yourself. I just can't. Do you know how many people I know that have been killed by different drugs, both for medical treatments and just using them for the shits and giggles? _Do _you?" He got no reply, and he gave a hollow laugh, hiccoughing and swiping at the tears that rolled freely down his face. "No, no I don't think you do. But Alfred, I can't sit around while you do shit like that. I can't lose the single most important person in my life. _I can't fucking do that_; honestly, I'd break if I lost you, and that's it. Nothing else. Without you I'd go back to being an empty person and I can't handle that. I don't want to be alone again."

Without a chance to say anything, his friend twisted around and grabbed his bag from the backseat and yanked it out between them, hoisting it up onto his shoulder as he got out of the car without another word. But he was still crying and Alfred wasn't going to let him walk away; not like this and with what he had just said hanging heavily in the air.

Speak now or forever hold your peace, wasn't that how the saying went?

This was a moment where holding the peace needed to go and fuck itself up the ass.

"_Wait_!" Alfred nearly fell out of the Escalade, his legs stiff and the sudden movement making his movements jerky. The Canadian ignored him until his hand was grabbed tightly by the lawyer and he was pulled back with a startled yelp into a bone-crushing hug, his body pressed up firmly against the others. "Mattie, _please_. Don't walk away from me. I just … I was scared to tell you, okay? I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner - I know that now, and I get that. _I fucked up_. I admit it, okay? I've never fucked up so badly in my entire life, and honestly, if I could take it back and do this again, I would have avoided all this mess and I would have told you. But please, don't walk away from me. Please … I … _don't leave me_."

He was pushed away roughly, and if anything, that was what killed him the most - paired alongside the heartbroken look on the Canadian's pallid, tear-slicked face.

Keeping him at arm's length, he pointedly stared at the sidewalk while trying to fight back the sobs that were gradually increasing. His fingers curled against the material of Alfred's sweater and his arms weakened, but he still wouldn't let the man hold him close. "It's one or the other, Alfred," he whispered, giving another sob and shaking his head firmly. The remaining colour in the New Yorker's face drained clear of it. "Either you ditch the coke and keep our friendship, or you can keep your coke. But don't expect to see me ever again. Later, Princess."

Giving him another light shove away, Matthew turned on his heel and hauled his bag closer, arms folded across his chest and one hand covering his mouth as tears streamed freely over his cheeks, his sobs unchecked now.

He wanted to tell him to wait, but he couldn't. Wanted to tell him that he loved him more than anything, but he couldn't. Alfred couldn't even make an incoherent noise to get the Canadian's attention. Hell, he couldn't even uproot his feet from the spot he was stood to go after him again. So instead, he just watched him uselessly with a sinking heart and a numb body as the younger man walked up over the stairs with a quick pace and then, after a moment, disappeared into his apartment. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest and scratching at the inside of his throat. Everything was making it hard to breathe.

He didn't even look back once.

It was impossible to tell if that was a good or a bad thing, but given the situation, it was damn well a bad one: something like that meant the Canadian was dead serious about what he had said. That he was willing to leave him and have nothing to do with him, ever again, should he choose to keep using the cocaine he had grown so accustomed to.

And that was when Alfred noticed that he was crying as well.

Curses escaping his mouth, running his hands through his hair as he just stood there, Alfred covered his mouth with one hand to muffle the sob that escaped him. "Oh, fuck," he choked out, taking a staggering step back before his back collided with the Escalade that was still running.

His mind was reeling, everything around him felt fuzzy and it was like his vision and concept of the world around him had just slipped into tunnel vision. Narrow, hollow and it felt like all of a sudden someone had shoved a pair of horse blinders on him. Nothing felt solid now.

But he knew what to do.

For once in his life, he knew what to do and he actually knew how to fix a problem he had caused.

Removing his cell phone from his pocket, he quickly selected the second number on his speed dial. His favourite person to annoy, pester, drive up the wall and prompt murderous and very verbal tirades out of, but it was also the person - next to Matthew - that he could go to without the risk of being judged. And given the man's line of work, which could probably be considered ironic.

After only three rings, a man answered, speaking in a voice that was laced with a British accent. "'Ello?"

"A-Arthur?" he stammered out, breath hitching as he tried desperately to control his crying and irregular breathing that was slowly nearing hyperventilation. "Arthur, I f-f-fucked up."

There was a moment of silence and then when his brother spoke, he sounded panicked. "Alfred! What's the matter, lad? What happened? Why are you cryin- oh sweet Virgin Mary, you haven't gotten hurt, have you? Has someone done something to you? Because if anyone has, I'll murder the bloody bas-"

"I fucked up," he whispered, the man's questions not even registering with him. "I fucked up, Matthew caught me doing coke, and now he … he's … I need you to help me make things right again, bro. _Please. _I'm begging you, Arthur, please help me set things right again."

"Oh, God, Alfred," Arthur murmured quietly, voice soothing. It only prompted Alfred to burst out sobbing once more, harder than the first time; a hand going to his mouth as he internally cursed himself for being such an idiot. "Don't worry, I'll help you to the best I can. I swear on it and you know I'd never break my word to you."

And the tinest of smiles formed on Alfred's lips, but it still wasn't enough.

He didn't even feel human anymore.

* * *

Hey guys hope you like this chapter ha ha ha I love you all I really do.

-goes to chill out in her newly constructed bomb shelter-


	21. Chapter 21

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.  
**"_Here comes a feeling you thought you'd forgotten."  
_

_Since you're not answering your phone, I'll just text you~ I'm sorry about blowing up at  
you like that yesterday. Totally uncalled for. This is something we need to sit down  
and really talk about. I should have given you a chance to speak,  
but I didn't and I'm sorry about that. Call me, eh~ :3  
_

_Maybe I should grovel or something. Like, Al, I'm really sorry. You don't  
even understand. Message me back or call me when you get this?  
_

_Is everything okay, Al? It's been a week and I still haven't  
heard from you. Let me know if everything's fine. Please?  
_

_Dropped by your place today and the doorman said he hasn't seen you in over a  
week? Uh, the fuck is this? _Please_ call me, text me, whatever. Just do something.  
_

_Do I have to call the National Guard or something, Al? I'm  
worried. Maybe a sewer creature ate you. That wouldn't be very cool.  
_

_You were definitely eaten by a sewer creature.  
_

_Police won't let me file a missing person's report because I'm not a family member? I  
just think the officer there didn't like me because I'm prettier than his wife.  
Haters gon' hate.  
_

_Dropped by again. Doorman said you still haven't been there. What is this I don't even.  
_

_The Doorman's name is Hugh, and he gave me a coffee when he saw me  
today, and told me you still haven't shown up. He's a nice man and  
I think he's kind of worried about you, too.  
_

_Okay, maybe this is just creepy now, but I stopped by your brother's place today - I  
swear, I'm just concerned for your well-being and safety. His wife said that you're fine  
and for me to not worry. Yet she wouldn't tell me where you are?  
Sense has not been made and I'm still worried as fuck.  
_

_Alfred, I don't know what you're getting at or what sort of stunt you're after  
pulling, but if you're getting these messages_, answer me. Please.

_I'm sorry. So. Fucking. Sorry. You don't even know how sorry I am.  
Please, talk to me if you've been getting these messages_.

_Four and a half weeks and nothing? This isn't funny anymore.  
_

_I miss you, Alfred. More than I thought I could. Please talk to me again._

_Hey You. Even though I know you're probably not going to see this - or reply to it for that  
matter, really - I just wanted to see if there would be any change. Miss you.  
_

_Five weeks. This is ridiculous. You know that, right?  
_

I miss you so fucking much.

* * *

The alarm on his phone went off, but he was already awake to greet it; he had been up already for the past four hours now, so he didn't entirely know why he had set the alarm to begin with. He picked it up and opened it, checking the screen. One missed call. Eyes widened and he immediately went to see who it was that it had called, and brought up the number. His face fell almost instantly when he saw that it had only been Gilbert, and that it had been about a half and hour ago since he had called. The guy was probably wondering where he was.

Flipping his phone shut and setting it down on the table beside him, Matthew drew his knees to his chest and the blankets back up to his chin. He was tired. So fucking tired and sick to his stomach. He had reached another breaking point, and all he wanted to do was just say fuck it all and throw in the towel because it was damn well tempting. Sleeping was hard to do, and eating was impossible unless he just felt like throwing it all back up - and last time he checked, he had dropped eight pounds within a little less than a week. Maybe that was why he felt even colder than he usually did. And he sort of felt like he had been nailed by a kamikaze dump truck.

Hell didn't even describe how he felt with even the slightest bit of accuracy.

Matthew bit down on his lip until he could taste blood and he dug his nails into his palm, screwing his eyes shut as he buried his face.

_He had fucked up._

Not Alfred. Alfred hadn't fucked up at all, now that he looked at it. He had just been doing what he was used to; you couldn't blame him for being addicted - that the Canadian understood considering he had come from the exact same place several months ago.

But he, Matthew Williams, had fucked up in a way he never had before.

Nuzzling into the polar bear teddy he kept tucked between his knees and chest, he sighed and just kept his face there, not wanting to acknowledge the bedroom around him.

Five and a half weeks.

That's how long it had been since he had blown up at Alfred and then, later on that evening, tried to call him.

Five and a half weeks since he had talked to or even seen the lawyer - his best friend, love interest, partner in crime, whatever the fuck you wanted to call him. Almost forty days. Over a month. And there had been absolutely no contact between the two of them, not even a whisper of where he might have been or what he might have been doing.

His head felt as though it had fallen off of his shoulders back in that nameless town, and he didn't know if it would even be possible for him to go back and get it at this point. The first week had been alright; he still wasn't too happy with the man and, frankly, he wanted to give the fucker one hell of a shiner before finally saying, 'Alright, I'm going to help you through this. We can do it together, right?' However, Alfred wouldn't call him back - which was, understandable, because really why would you want to talk to the person that blew up at you without waiting to hear you out?

But then after that first week, something felt wrong. Out of place, and it was making him sick. It was a gut feeling, and maybe he was just being stupid, but after living on the streets he had learned to go with whatever his stomach was telling him - at that time it had been in a knot; he couldn't even eat without gagging that was how bad it had gotten in that period of seven days. So, obviously, he went to Alfred's condo.

When he saw the Doorman - Hugh O'Conner, a fifty-one-year-old Irishman who had come to America wanting to follow a career in music - the man asked him where Alfred was. At first Matthew just stared at him with a stupid, blank expression on his face before he managed to stutter out an 'I was about to ask you the same thing'. Then, when Hugh just looked at him sadly, he laughed. That nervous, high-pitched giggle that you experience when something's making you anxious; scared; when your heart starts beating a little too fast for your liking or for what could be considered normal. You're joking, right? He had asked, scratching the back of his ankle as he counted backwards from a hundred to try and quell his racing heart.

Hugh had simply looked at him, said 'I wish I was' and held the door open for an elderly woman who did not say thank you to the man that had given up pursuing a career in the one thing he wanted because, like so many other people, New York had aged him too quickly and had left him jaded.

And that was when everything felt like it was beginning to fall apart, all over again.

Matthew didn't quite know how he had made it to this point, but he had. Somehow. Maybe he had simply fallen back into his old lifestyle without even noticing the change. The get out of bed and drag yourself to work, come home and pass out then do it all over again. Except for the sleeping part was getting to the point of not even happening anymore, and it was getting harder to haul himself out of bed. Tired; he was tired all the time. Tunnel vision and the inability to concentrate, and honestly, he looked (and almost felt) like the walking dead. Frankly, he just needed a nine hour coma. Something to knock him out for a while, for him to get a grip that was a little more solid and stable on everything. That wasn't going to happen, though. Not with everything looming so heavily over his conscience.

He knew quite well what it was, and whose fault it was. He just didn't want to admit to it.

Curling in further upon himself, he sniffled and bit the inside of his cheek before glancing over to his clock radio. Nine thirty-four flashed in garish red numbers on the black screen and he rolled over onto his back, taking his mobile phone with him. He was an hour late for work and he hadn't even called in yet. For a moment, he just lay there, and then he remembered Gilbert would have been working with him today. So that explained why he had called. Shit.

Picking the phone up, he dialled the store's number and listened as it rang, sighing as someone on the front end - from the flatness of the voice, it sounded like Natalia and a shudder ran through him along with the words _that scary bitch_ - and he asked to be transferred to someone in grocery. That was when he crossed his fingers and prayed to whatever considered itself Holy and fucking demanded that his manager would not answer the phone. While Sadiq, the man that was the head of the grocery department, was a good guy and all, he could also be unusually cruel, didn't care much for the well being of others besides that of his own and there were times when he could be downright _strange_. Strange being he wore this ridiculous mask that Gilbert joked about, saying that it made him look like the Phantom of the Opera and then the university student would spend the rest of his shift talking in a deep, theatrical voice, pretending to use a Punjab and talking about beautiful sopranos and how he had the sexiest left eyebrow in the history of left eyebrows.

Moments later - much to his relief - it was Gilbert that answered the phone.

"Hey, Gil, listen, I-"

"Aw, hey Birdie! You do know you were supposed to be here, like, an hour ago? Sadiq is pissed as fuck, but he hasn't gone to Specs yet so-"

"Yeah, about that. I'm not coming in for my shift today. Or tomorrow, for that matter."

There was a lengthy, stagnant pause between his words and Gilbert's response. "W-What? Why? Is everything alright, Mattie?"

"No, everything isn't alright," the Canadian choked out, the words leaving his mouth before he had even processed the fact that he was speaking. He flipped the phone shut, terminating the call before the other had a chance to ask him what was wrong. Around him everything was silent, with the exception of the soft buzzing that emanated from the clock radio. And so he lay there for a few moments, one hand covering his glasses-less eyes and the other resting on his flat abdomen. No sooner than a minute after he had hung up on the other and then his phone started ringing. A smirk crossed his face and he picked up his mobile, glancing at the number. It was the store, just as he had suspected. So that meant it was either Gilbert calling him to ask what was wrong, or Sadiq - the Grocery Manager from Hell - calling to ask none-too-politely where the fuck he was.

Not bothering with answering it at all because he didn't want to talk to anyone at the given moment nor did he want to play twenty-one questions with his former boyfriend, he simply turned the device around and removed the battery from the back, turning over to set it back down on his bedside table. Once more he glanced down at the clock. Thirty-nine. He continued to watch the clock and, after what felt like forever, the numbers finally changed to forty.

Leaning down and over the edge of the bed, he groped along the wall and, when he found the outlet and plug that was there, Matthew yanked it out from the wall, watching as the numbers flickered and then died altogether.

Now he could say his apartment was completely silent.

So he laid there, the polar bear plush Alfred had bought for him in January pressed close to his chest and the blankets up over his chin, curled into the mattress and pillow. It was impossible to keep his eyes open for the way they burned, but he couldn't fall back to sleep no matter how hard he actually tried. How many hours had he slept last night, anyway? Matthew considered it. It was almost two before he finally fell asleep and the next time he remembered looking at his clock, it read five on the dot. Three hours sleep - maybe even a little less than that.

Fuck yeah, he felt like the ultimate trooper.

Yawning and nestling down further in amongst the blankets, Matthew shivered and shut his eyes against the dim light of his bedroom; the thick curtains were drawn firmly across the window, keeping everything outside hidden from view. If he couldn't see it, then why would he bother with worrying about it? It was very simple and awfully logical, especially for him. Everything was just beginning to pile up and make him feel like such a sappy, angst-filled little bastard so all he wanted to do was, really, bury himself and never climb out of the hole ever again.

It could be comfortable down there for all he knew, so why the fuck would he want to leave it if he had nothing to go back to besides the Lamp?

Actually, he could take the Lamp with him and then he really wouldn't have to worry about anything else.

Problem solved, case closed.

Reopening his eyes some time later, he looked around groggily, wondering where the heavy thumping noise was coming from. He could feel it in his temples, all down through his body and it made every inch of him hurt like nothing before. Then he realized it was a migraine forming, not someone knocking at the door like he had thought at first. Probably from not bothering with eating or something, as that was how his headaches usually started. But either way, when he turned his head and looked around, everything blurred dangerously and he groaned, covering his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose at the same time, as if doing that would push the pain he was feeling away.

What to do, what to do, Matthew wondered, rolling onto his back and sighing. Lie in bed for the remainder of time as his mind was slowly eaten at by sharp bursts of pain and mental self-abuse or crawl to the kitchen, take painkillers, his vitamins and his Valium and crash on the sofa for the rest of the day to watch cartoons?

He didn't like either idea because he would rather stay asleep for the rest of the day, but he sat up all the same, shutting his eyes as a vertigo ensued and the room twisted and turned in a way it wasn't supposed to. Rooms were not supposed to turn inside-out; they were to remain stationary for as long as possible. There was no swaying and wiggling and curving. They were made of solid wood, gyprock, insulation, wires, cords, pipes. Things that were logical; things that functioned to a set degree. Things that did not curl into ugly monsters at the whim of a pain-addled and nearly-depressed-brain.

Unless he was living on the other side of a looking glass, then it was okay and he should probably get used to it. Maybe it could even be fun, looking at things through a kaleidoscope as everything swirled while he did nothing but sit there, watching and wondering.

But this was Manhattan, not an Alice in Wonderland story, and he needed to get up, force some kind of food and drink down his throat before he collapsed and take his pills so that he could at least function for a small portion of the day.

He shivered when his bare feet touched the cold, hardwood floor, toes curling and a soft curse being hissed.

Hesitating for a moment before he left the bedroom, he looked back to his bed where the polar bear - Kumawhatsit - was and he bit down on his lower lip before making a lunge for the teddy and grabbing it, cradling it close to his chest and burying his nose in its head, inhaling lightly before sighing and shaking his head as he left the room. While carrying a teddy bear around at the age of twenty-one in the same way a little kid would made him feel absolutely ridiculous, in a way it also put him at ease. But he told himself it was simply because it was one of those little creature comforts, almost like a security blanket.

Most certainly not because he could still faintly smell the cologne Alfred usually favoured on its fur.

Meandering out into the kitchen with another yawn playing on his lips, he opened up one of the cupboards and grabbed three different pill bottles. His Valium, iron pills for the fact that he could afford to take them now for his anemia, and Vitamin D pills because, after some blood tests, he found out that his D levels were low. Of course. Because shit like that was just so fucking convenient.

Grabbing a glass from the same cupboard with a hand that was trembling a little more than it should have been, he turned on the tap, letting it run for a few minutes out of sheer habit, and he filled the goblet, popping each pill into his mouth one at a time and then washing it down, grimacing at the iron pill in particular.

And then he stood there, resting back against the counter and wondering what he would do now.

Well, there were plenty of things for him to do. He could sit down and read, or he could do some painting - which he hadn't done in almost four weeks now - or he could take out his sketch book and do some drawing. He could go on his laptop, which he was doing more often than not, creeping different blogs on interior design, books and video games. Or he could play some video games, but that wouldn't be nearly as much fun because it was _so_ much better to play with another person than just himself.

He blushed upon realizing the potential context of his thoughts, thankful that there was finally no one else in his head that could overhear them.

However, Matthew didn't really want to do any of those things; he felt too listless, too tired. His attention span was worse than usual and God fucking dammit, he missed Alfred too much to even want to do anything. It was ridiculous, he knew, being so depressed over the fact that the man hadn't been in his life for over a month now but he couldn't help but feel low. The idiot made him smile like no one else could, and frankly, it killed him to not see him or hear him laugh or make up stupid, inane stories at the most inappropriate times. He missed Alfred randomly taking his hand and tugging him off in the most random directions with little to no explanation. He missed the silence they could share without feeling suffocated. He missed their stupid arguments that were more along the lines of fun than serious. He missed the serious discussions they could have about anything and everything, and how they could make the most ridiculous of topics sound like the most important, ground-breaking causes ever experienced.

He missed it when they would be in his living room, watching movies and making their snide commentary about a certain actor's performance or just how awful the dialogue was. He missed it when the American would fall asleep part way through a boring scene and his head would rest on his shoulder as the lawyer would snore softly. He missed the way _he_ could curl into the older man when he was the one falling asleep; missed how strong arms would wrap around him and keep him pressed up against a firm torso and leave him with the feeling of being in the safest place in the world. He missed how fingers would gently run through his hair, making him sleepier than before.

He missed the way Alfred would smile at him, whether it was his bright, million-watt grin when he did something stupid and he knew it or that shy, tentative and boyish smile reserved just for him when the two of them were together and doing absolutely nothing. He missed the way he would causally hold his hand while they were out walking, the way his hand felt, how strong it was. He missed the stupid faces he would unwittingly make, and he most definitely missed how he would occasionally space out in the middle of saying something and then suddenly start talking about something else altogether. His quirks, his ways of saying things, his gentleness and how brash he could be all at the same time. He missed-

Oh for the love of fuck, he missed everything about the man.

And the only reason he missed it was because he had fucked up and, more than likely, driven the American away with his angered outburst upon finding out about his cocaine addiction instead of offering, right then and there, to help him get through it.

Feeling his legs go weak, Matthew sighed as he slid down along the cupboard to sit upon the floor, resting his head back against the counter.

It was just sitting on him like a dead weight, what he had done and Alfred's subsequent disappearance. He felt like he was suffocating beneath it all - the guilt, the self-directed anger and loathing, the nausea, the anxiety, the returning depression. Someone had turned on the taps while he was lying on the bottom and now he was back to drowning.

Nothing could ever work out for him. Not even this would.

A sigh passed his lips and he shut his eyes as the beginnings of a migraine finally started to dissipate. At least there was one small blessing hanging around for him, right?

No, not really, but it was the thought that counted.

Sliding along the cold tile flooring to sit down in front of the fridge, he set the polar bear teddy down upon the floor in the same spot he had previously been seated to as he yanked open the ice box. Stainless steel, Kenmore, and installed a month before he had moved in. While the Canadian hated materialism and was damn well happy enough with what he had, this was a splendid fridge.

There was even an ice maker on the front of it.

The fuck kind of fridge had an ice maker on it?

Oh yeah, those fancy kinds that cost more than what he made over a two week period.

Skimming down through the racks in his fridge, he looked at everything that was in there but pulled back with a sigh, not quite knowing if he wanted to tempt sitting down and trying to eat. His stomach felt so hollow, yet strained. But he knew he needed to eat sometime soon otherwise jade would find out - she had already commented several times that he was getting too damn thin again - and that meant McKnight would find out. The last thing he needed was to be hospitalized for his eating habits again.

Grabbing a cup of pre-cut honeydew melon and a small tetra pack of chocolate soy milk, he slammed the door shut and studied the two things he held. Fifteen pieces of melon, and 160ml of soy milk. He could handle that, right? His stomach totally wouldn't flip a shit, right?

Not likely, because the moment a piece of melon touched his tongue and he got the flavour of it, he retched, coming dangerously close to vomiting whatever bile was in his stomach. It was like his throat had frozen and swollen up, preventing him from being sick in the first place. Indigo eyes watered, his jaw trembled and there was a sort of weakness that overtook him that was different from what he was already experiencing. Glancing to the melon he had just tried to eat - he hadn't even taken a bite out of it because the taste of it alone had set it off - he felt his stomach tighten even further and he shrank down and away with a whine, pushing the food away and picking up his little container of soy milk and puncturing the hole designated for the straw. There was no problem in drinking back the entire container within a few moments when compared to the food he had just tried. His stomach didn't clench, he didn't feel the urge to crawl into the bathroom and vomit until his insides fell out.

But even looking at the food made him want to get sick. It was ridiculous, and it made Matthew hate himself all that much more. McKnight had warned him to go see him if this happened again; when it came to depression and how the Canadian reacted to it; the whole ordeal was never an emotional thing. Not at first. The first thing to go - and stay gone - was his ability to eat. Every goddamn time. The moment he would sit down to try and eat something, he would get physically sick and then, by the end, he would just give up eating altogether and he would stick to liquids.

And although he knew he should probably go and see McKnight about it, Matthew just didn't want to. He didn't want to take more pills; didn't want to put up with side-effects for the first week, the occasional suicidal thought that would turn into several a week and then into several a day; the way everything morphed into a tunnel vision he couldn't get rid of.

With a grimace of determination upon his face, he picked up the container of melon and ignored how his stomach tightened at the thought of what he was going to do. But there was no way he was going to let this get the better of him. At least not today. Tomorrow, maybe. Not right now though.

Picking up one small piece of honeydew, he put it in his mouth and immediately chomped down on it, chewing and gagging at the same time as his insides just about pitched a fit. But he swallowed it down and pressed his forehead down onto his knees as his legs were drawn up to his chest, a shaking hand pressed firmly over his mouth. He felt so ill - a cold sweat had broken out all along his back and he felt icy cold right down to the roots of his hair, and his mouth watered disgustingly - but he just kept swallowing until, after a bit, he didn't feel like puking.

While it took him the better part of an hour, being sat there on the kitchen floor and practically curled up against the fridge, he somehow managed to choke down all the melon without puking everywhere. Despite it being just a small accomplishment, Matthew couldn't help but feel a small sort of pride at being able to eat all of it. One thing he had done right, at least.

He sat there, head resting back on the cold, metallic surface of the fridge, humming lightly as he massaged the bridge of his nose.

That hadn't been too awful. And he didn't feel quite as sick anymore, which was a small bonus. His stomach didn't feel empty, either; it felt as though he had been stuffed to the brim. Now he didn't feel like his mid-section was just going to crumple in on itself when he stood.

Hauling himself up, trying to ignore how his knees still trembled and practically knocked together. Maybe a shower would make him feel a little bit better, as well. Warm water, lots of steam and some nice body wash. Oh, and he'd get a shave, too, despite not entirely needing one just yet. He only had the slightest scruff on his chin, and it had been almost a week since he had last shaved; all that was there was a little stubble and not much more.

Running his fingers along his jaw and chin, he hummed lightly and for a brief moment wondered if his father had the same problem - the inability to grow facial hair properly. Maybe it was something genetic that he had inherited from the man.

The thought surprised him and he stopped in his tracks, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before he looked around, as though expecting someone to creep up behind him.

It wasn't very often he caught himself thinking about his father, if ever at all, considering he had no notion as to who the man was. While his mother had been adamant in her hatred for the man, and Matthew had grown to dislike him as well - probably for the fact that hatred can be contagious when one is exposed to it for an extended period of time as it's channelled toward the same object and/or individual - now he just had no opinion on him. But he had never known him, didn't know of his motive for leaving his mother - because that's what she said had happened - so he didn't know if his hatred of him could even be classified as legitimate; his cousin Francis knew who his father was, and no matter how many times he had begged and pleaded for the older man - who had to be in his late forties by now - to tell him who his father was.

Francis would simply chuckle, pat him on the head and tell him that he couldn't for his mother had sworn him to secrecy, then offer for the boy to join him in a tyrannical raid of sorts in the kitchen that would leave his mother scowling and trying to ignore the two and how the Frenchman always managed to worm a cookie or three in before dinner.

(The French lawyer also said he had an uncanny ability to profit from the sidelines, which Matthew never really understood until he was a teenager.)

And he never did find out; it had been almost four years since he had seen Francis, and even now he knew the man would just tell him he had made a promise to keep the Canadian from knowing. As odd as it might have been, or maybe it was merely paranoia, things like that made Matthew feel like he might have been an accident, as he was an only child and his mother had only been eighteen-years-old and just out of high school when she had found out she was pregnant in the first place.

Accidental pregnancy. A cold smirk curved his lips as he grabbed a pair of jeans from his closet and a t-shirt at random along with some clean undergarments. Jason had known who his father was, as well, and he had known that his existence wasn't intentional, either.

On more than one occasion the man had called Matthew an accident. That he shouldn't have been born in the first place. They were the few words said by the man that still rang clear in his mind; perhaps it was from the amount of times the other had stricken him, but the majority of the things Jason had said to him in the entire time they had known each other completely escaped him.

Being called an accident, though, was something that would never leave him.

Peeling off his shirt as he ambled into the bathroom and sighing heavily, he ran his fingers down along his ribs as a reflex and grimaced when he realized he could feel them again. "Fuck," he breathed, shucking off his sleeping pants and throwing them into the hamper along with the shirt he had been wearing. Back to this shit.

Grabbing his shampoo and body wash and stepping into the shower, he shut the glass door behind him as he winced at the cold stone beneath his feet. The shower was tiny, big enough for just one person with a little space to move, and the thing was almost in pitch darkness from the fact that it was isolated from the bath and more or less built into the wall. Turning on the taps and pulling to the side a little as the water heated up to the point that standing beneath the torrent should have scalded his skin, Matthew ducked his head beneath the water and then just stayed there, resting his head on the cold stone wall as water streamed down his bare back. Shutting his eyes as water began to drip and pool into his eye lashes, he listened to the steady sound of the water plinking onto the cold floor that was slowly beginning to warm.

He could feel the steam pooling around him and slipping into his lungs as he took slow, measured breaths. And then he pulled back, turning on his heel and grabbing his shampoo as he set about the purpose of a shower. The water was some warm, and he still felt so weak and tired that it was making his legs rubbery, so Matthew figured he might as well clean his hair before his legs gave out on him altogether; he could sit down on the floor as he washed himself. That would probably make it easier, actually.

Setting the shampoo back in the rack once he was finished with it, and when he finally had all the suds rinsed out of his hair, he slid down along the wall and set his head back against it, shutting his eyes and letting the water beat down on his torso, the initial sting of the heated water gone. Or maybe his body had just been so scalded by the water that he couldn't even notice it anymore. A yawn escaped him and he ran his hand down over his face, staring up at the ceiling as the steam rose in thin swirls. It was fascinating to his exhausted and pill-clouded mind, something he couldn't take his eyes off of no matter how hard he tried to.

It was nearly an hour before he mustered the strength to get up and emerge from the shower, a trembling and weak mess. The water had gone cold and had been icy for a while before he had even realized it. Shivering as he staggered out over the stone ledge, tripping and almost landing face-first on the floor as he tried to wrap a towel around his narrow hips. He cursed lightly before straightening up and setting his shaving gear down onto the countertop with a heavy sigh.

Grabbing a face cloth and wiping it over the fogged-up mirror, he tossed it down onto the counter and then started to run the water, listening to it as it hit the stainless steel sink. It hit with a shaper noise than what the water in the shower would have, and he hummed a little, tilting his head to the side as he just listened. He sighed, feeling ridiculous for allowing himself to be so amazed by a goddamn noise, and made a grab for his razor.

And then he hesitated, staring at the blade, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he studied it. Five of them, short and clean. Sharp; he knew this because the last time he had shaved, he hadn't been paying attention and he had nicked the underside of this chin. Matthew noticed that his hand had started trembling in a way that was unrelated to his cold water-induced shivering, but otherwise he paid it no heed.

Cocking his head to the side as he stared blankly at the razor blade, his eyes were glassy and he felt as though he were somewhere else; in another year altogether. Spinning the black and blue plastic and steel around his finger tips, eyes never once leaving the blade, he blinked sluggishly, contemplated and then paused. The Canadian then scrunched up his nose with distaste at the entire situation he was presented with - that he had brought upon himself yet again.

He blinked quickly several times, huffed and then grabbed for the container of shaving cream before turning his gaze back to the mirror, trying to ignore the bags beneath his eyes; the fact that his skin had gone several shades paler; the fact that his face was thinner again.

Just perfect because losing weight was just what he needed, right?

Some half an hour later, he wandered out of the bathroom, freshly shaven, clean, a little less sane and dressed for the day even though he didn't quite intend on going anywhere anytime soon. A sigh passed his lips; if he could have it his way, he wouldn't leave his apartment ever again - not until Alfred came back, at least. Plodding over to the sofa and crashing down with a grunt, he lay there and stared at the ceiling, letting a sigh slip pass his lips.

This was beyond feeling down. This was being sub-terrain. Marianas Trench. Undersea cavern. The center of the Earth. The interior of the center of the Earth. If the interior of the center of the Earth if it imploded. If it imploded several times.

_Why was this affecting him so damn much?_

This was beginning to make him feel like some stupid, whipped, pussy-ass little bitch. He could function just damn fine before Alfred became, essentially, a permanent fixture in his life. Even in January he was just fine. But since then, since he admitted to It, to those stupid, bullshit feelings he hadn't felt since he was in high school, it was like he was just so completely dependant on the man being around him for both his emotional and physical well-being. As if without him he wasn't meant to function properly. He wasn't _supposed_ to feel like this about anyone. He was a guy, first off, and it was the general, well-known stereotype that men weren't dependant on anyone except for the right hand and a stable economy or some shit like that. His art teacher had told him that once, after they had sex. Although that affair had been completely illegal, it had been one hell of a learning experience. Mr. Rightie was supposed to be his sole companion when no one else was there.

So then, if that was the case, then why the fuck was he so hung up on Alfred not being there with him?

"Why did I have to go and fuck up like that and why, for the love of fucking Jesus, am I so fucking _in love _with that bastard?" Matthew moaned aloud, grabbing a pillow and shoving it down over his face with a groan of absolute frustration. "This is fucking embarrassing as shit an-"

"Who are you talking to?"

A shriek was startled out of the Canadian and he bolted up off of the sofa, crawling over the back and landing on the floor before scrambling to sit up against the wall and stare up at the speaker. Roderich Edelstein stood there, arms folded across his chest and an eyebrow arched, hip cocked as he tapped his foot.

"As well, might I mention that it would be perhaps somewhat beneficial to lock your door, even when you are at home, Mr. Williams?" he pointed out smoothly, moving with a sort of grace across the room before sitting down primly in an arm chair and watching the pale-faced Canadian as he slumped against the wall, hand pressed to his chest and his eyes wide. "Are you going to just sit there and stare at me?"

Matthew's mouth opened and closed uselessly for a moment and then he swallowed, looking around and his eyes widening further as Gilbert wandered in as well, flopping down on the sofa, one arm dangling over the back and the other resting on the arm.

"What'd you do to him, Specs?" he asked. "Give 'im a heart attack or something?"

Roderich scowled. "Ingrate," he snapped. "No, I simply startled him because the genius didn't have enough common sense to lock his front door."

"Well, you were the one that just waltzed on in without waiting for him to answer the door," Gilbert retaliated with a shake of his head, grinning as the Canadian finally got up off the floor and tottered over on wobbly legs to flop down on the other end of the sofa as his expression still registered shock and the slightest dismay.

The manager opened his mouth, sat there wordlessly for a moment, huffed and then shut his mouth, glaring pointedly before looking away as his cheeks flushed lightly. There was a smug look on Gilbert's face and he sunk back against the cushions of the sofa, grinning rakishly.

"But, seriously Birdie, who were you talking to?" Gilbert asked, straightening up and tilting his head quizzically at the other.

Saying nothing at first, the Canadian rubbed at his temple and averted his eyes to look at the floor. But the German-American's gaze did not waver from his face despite his best efforts to avoid it - Gilbert's eyes were practically blazing as the older man watched him, waiting for an answer.

Then he sighed, breaking down finally. "Myself, really," he muttered, staring out into the kitchen area with a vapid look on his face, lips set into a firm, stubborn line as he glowered at nothing in particular; glaring just happened to cross his fancy at the given time so fuck that shit he was going to give the evil eye to whatever he damn well felt like and right now, that toaster was looking like a prick.

"And what's so fascinating about talking to yourself?" Gil asked, edging forward with a curious look on his face.

Matthew sent him a sharp look before turning his gaze once more to the kitchen, this time the blender being the object of his scrutiny. "I'm an amazing conversationalist," he said coldly, subconsciously crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive way as he sunk back into the cushions. "Why wouldn't I want to talk to myself?"

"What about Alfred?" Gilbert demanded, although he was unable to keep the bitterness in his voice from showing too much; from the corner of his eye, he could see the tightness in the man's shoulders, the way his jaw twitched for a brief moment. While Matthew knew Gilbert was damn good and over him and quite in love with Roderich, the art student hated Alfred with a passion. And be damned if he could figure out what it was about him that made the man hate the lawyer so much in the first place. "I thought you guys were tight?"

The muscle in Matthew's jaw twitched, but he said nothing; just swallowed against the burning sensation in his throat that was slowly migrating to his chest where it would sit there and fester like a malicious disease.

"I mean, I'm sure you could babble to him instead of the open air or whatever," the man continued, not having noticed the way the other's composure had changed, "about whatever it is that was bothering you, especially if you couldn't talk to me, of all people, about it. Which isn't cool, y'know, considering how awesome I am and all." He snuffed through his nose and then rolled his eyes. "I don't see why you couldn't come to me about it. Speaking of ol' Yankee Doodle, what did he do, disappear or something? I haven't seen him in ages."

At this, Matthew's breath hitched and he looked away, running a hand through his hair while his other hand curled into a fist and then uncurled. His stomach, still full from the pathetic meal of chopped pieces of melon, was beginning to turn at his friend's words. He was going to be sick. He just knew it; first he had driven Alfred away with his sheer stupidity, and now Gilbert was pissed off at him, too, in that subtle way reserved for when he was really angry, but didn't quite want to hurt his feelings.

"Shut up, Gilbert," Roderich snapped suddenly, capturing both of their attention. The man had pinched the bridge of his nose and was shaking his head. "You oblivious fool."

Gilbert, much to his, surprise, did indeed fall silent, staring at his lover with a mixture of apprehension on his face and annoyance.

"I had a feeling." Turning in his seat to face the semi-bent over Canadian, he tilted his head a little as he watched the way his eyes had fluttered shut and the way he chewed on his lip. "What happened between you and Mr. Jones, Matthew?"

Matthew's lower lip trembled and all he did was shake his head, looking away and covering his mouth. How the hell had Mr. Edelstein known? Well, he probably didn't know what it was - more than likely he had no clue about it, at all - but for him to have a hunch that something was wrong between the two of them when they didn't really talk outside of work unless he was hanging out with Gilbert and the store owner happened to there. The artist swallowed, deciding against speaking. As it stood, it wasn't like he knew what to say in the first place.

Next thing he knew, Roderich had crossed the room and was seated in front of him, crouched down before him and peered up at him with concerned violet eyes. "Matthew? Talk to me."

And then he broke.

Words started spilling out before he even realized he was talking at all, and it was the oddest feeling; to be talking without even being aware of it in the first place. "I … I … we went for a drive last m-month and, well, we stopped in some town to get something to eat. Which was cool and all. But then he was taking too long to come back from the bathroom so I went to check and see if he was okay and then I caught him doing cocaine in the bathroom. Like, I lost my shit at him. It was totally unnecessary. I a-absolutely flipped out at him. So that was cool and we had the most awkward lunch ever and I couldn't even look at him without wanting to throw up and smack him and then when we left we just … we didn't say anything at all. The entire four hours driving, we didn't say one word. Not until we got back into the city. I-I didn't know what to say, I didn't know how to approach him on it and then I just … _I don't know_. Something felt like it _broke, _like someone snapped a thin, fraying string that was keeping everything togetherand I just needed to get out of the car so fucking bad. I've never needed to get away from him so bad in my entire life, and that hurt. Oh, fuck, it hurt so much. I couldn't face him, not even to talk. Even though we should have. We didn't. I just … I was just so _angry_ and upset and I couldn't … I just _couldn't_." He made a choked noise as his voice cracked dangerously, betraying how he felt, covering his mouth as tears worked their way into his eyes. "So I basically let him have it, and s-said that if he wanted t-t-to stay d-doing his coke then I-I'd never tal-" His voice broke altogether and he gave a strangled sob, shutting his eyes as tears leaked from them. "Why? Why couldn't he fucking tell me? I … I'm his best friend! Well, at least I thought I was. But … _I just don't fucking understand. _I-I-I would have _helped_ him if h-he had to tell me before I-I f-found out l-like that!"

Neither of the two men in the room said a word to the Canadian that was silently crying on the sofa, taking the occasional shuddering breath, and Gilbert looked deeply troubled. He shook his head, running a hand through pale blonde hair before speaking. "Maybe it was for the same reason you couldn't tell me you had tried killing yourself? Because that's damn well what it sounds like to me, Birdie."

Indigo eyes went impossibly wide and the Canadian recoiled sharply, moving to stand. Maybe it was just him being paranoid and distressed, but from the way the man had worded that, it almost felt as though he had just attempted to use his history of suicidal tendencies, as McKnight called them, against him. His former boyfriend, however, would not allow it; he grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him back down to sit upon the sofa once more, a serious look on his face.

"If you wouldn't listen to Alfred - and knowing you, you probably didn't give the guy a chance to get a word in edgewise - you're going to listen to me, and you going to fucking listen to me now," he hissed, pale blue eyes icy. Matthew nodded, oblivious to how his hand stayed tightly on his thin, fragile wrist. "I remember you were fucking terrified to tell me you had tried to kill yourself; that you were still suicidal; that you were on more pills than what a fucking pharmaceutical company puts out in a year; that you had a therapist you saw once a week that still worried that you were going to try and off yourself again. You were fucking terrified to tell me that you had done drugs while you lived on the streets, that you stole from some stores and held them up with your gun on several occasions just so you could get a little bit of the spoils for yourself; that you worked as a p-"

"Don't you say it," Matthew hissed viciously, panicking now and taking a furtive glance towards his boss who looked on with an expression of pure shock on his face at what Gilbert had started to easily list off; while Roderich had known the sort of situation he had come from via McKnight, who had gotten him the job in the first place, he did not know to what extent it had all been for him. "Don't you _dare_ say it, you bastard."

"What?" Gilbert asked lowly. "That you worked several times as a prostitute while you were living on the streets? No, I won't say that."

All the colour drained from Matthew's face and he stood, wringing his hands and unable to bring himself to look at either of the men in his sitting area. There was nothing he could even say. Nothing coherent, and nothing that would keep their friendship in one piece. So instead he stumbled away from the two, weak at the knees and feeling sicker than he had in days, and just sat at the kitchen table and held his face in his hands because that was all he could do. For Gil to go and just say that as though it were the most casual thing ever and be so goddamn nonchalant about it - in front of their fucking boss, none the less - it had left Matthew shaken and speechless. He felt sick to his stomach; weak. Gilbert was the only person that had ever known that, and now Roderich did, of all people, too. The fuck sort of game was he playing at?

From across the room, he heard Gilbert speak again, "Alright, now imagine how Alfred felt when you found that out he does cocaine. And compare it to how you felt just then."

A look of realization crossed Matthew's face and he let his face hit the table as he ran his hands through his hair. "I'm an excuse of a human," he choked out miserably. "I don't think I've ever hated myself more than what I do right now."

No one said anything after that; they just watched the Canadian as he sat there, hands laced through his hair as he drew his knees to his chest and cursed rapidly beneath his breath, depreciating himself for just plain existing.

It felt as though hours had dragged by before he made to move again, but for all he knew it could have been minutes; his sense and state of mental cohesion hadn't been working for a few weeks now, along with his sense of time. Upon feeling a hand running through his hair, Matthew jerked his head up, rubbing at his neck which had grown painfully stiff to the point that movement made his eyes water and pain prickle all down along his neck. He blinked slowly and then sighed, wiping at the tears that had dried there. It had been a while since he had stopped, but even then he didn't want to lift his head; the migraine had returned a ten-fold and he still wanted to just roll over onto the floor and vomit.

"What?" he demanded sharply, the word coming out a little harsher than what he had initially intended.

Gilbert grimaced. "Hey, c'mon Birdie, don't be like that," he said softly, gnawing on the inside of his cheek as he watched the mercurial young man beside him as he glared angrily at the table. "No one here thinks any less of you because of it, and you know it."

"That's not the _point_, Gil," Matthew said, voice strained. "I just … you promised me you wouldn't tell anyone that."

"Well, I didn't exactly tell anyone, directly," he said smoothly, hauling a chair over to sit down beside the Canadian. "I just said it. Whether or not Roderich heard anything is up to his listening abilities, right Specs?"

Roderich ambled over and arched a brow. "Heard what?" he asked quietly, resting his hip on the edge of the table and smiling lightly at the youngest of the three in the room.

Not quite getting it at first, Matthew only stared at the man in front of him before his lips curled into a tiny, trembling smile of relief and he ducked his head. "Thanks," he whispered.

"I don't know exactly what it is you're thanking me for," Edelstein sniffed haughtily, "but I'll accept it all the same. You're quite welcome, boy."

Matthew laughed weakly before he shook his head again; slumping a little in his chair and staring out across the room with a forlorn look on his face. "I just … I feel _awful_," he said quietly, blinking rapidly and grimacing. "It's been almost six weeks since I last heard from him and I can't sleep, I can't eat without getting physically sick, I have no energy and I'm like it all the time. I can't handle feeling this way again and I don't want to do this anymore. I _won't_."

"Don't say shit like that," Gilbert said lowly, cupping a thinned-out cheek in his palm, forcing the Canadian to look at him as he scowled. "You say shit like that and I'll kick your scrawny ass, got it, Birdie?"

There was silence in the kitchen after Gilbert spoke, and the Canadian sunk back in his chair, looking away and removing the hand from his cheek, but still holding onto it lightly, just letting their fingers twine together for a moment before he turned to look over at the man seated beside him. The expression on his face was miserable and he sighed, shaking his head and gnawing on his lip. "I-I'm sorry, Gil," he whispered. "I don't even know where my head is right now. I feel like I'm all over the place."

Gilbert wiped at his eyes with a tissue he had grabbed from seemingly nowhere, smiling softly, expression oddly tender. "Listen, we're going to head back to work, alright? Turn your cell phone back on and give me a call later tonight; I'll come over, and we'll get completely wasted, watch some terribly dubbed movies and just be general assholes. Maybe I'll even get Luddy to come over, too. I'm sure he'd get a kick out of getting drunk with us."

Nodding, he managed a small smile that in turn caused a look of relief to cross the German-American's face. "That sounds good to me," he said softly. "Being drunk sounds like it would be the most amazing thing ever right now. Bring some vodka, tequila and whiskey because, honestly, I want alcohol poisoning at this point in time."

Leaning down between them, Roderich pinched Gilbert's cheek, scowling. "I'll come and pick you up," he said icily, "but you better come into work tomorrow. I don't care if you're dying. You are coming in whether you like it or not." Then, he turned to Matthew, expression stern. "You, on the other hand, may take the rest of the week off and you can return when you feel up to it."

Matthew smiled a little, and then he laughed at the expression Gilbert now wore - one that was utterly displeased and slightly spiteful. "Hey, don't be such a priss," he snapped. "Do you want me in puking my guts up and being hung over as fuck?"

"Stop it with that foul language, you barbaric, uncouth brat," Roderich snapped, the entire act of being disgusted by his lover's foul mouth being thrown out the window as the pale-skinned man stood and kissed him lightly on the corner of the mouth. Roderich's expression softened and he sighed, lightly kissing his temple. Matthew felt his gut clench, but he managed to keep a grin plastered on his face all the same.

That was something he had gotten good at.

"You don't complain when it's just the two of us, in your bedroom," Gilbert purred saucily, grinning roguishly as he trailed his finger's down over the older man's chest while the store owner's face flushed dangerously and he spluttered helplessly. Matthew, on the other hand, burst out laughing. Hysterically. To the extent of having tears in his eyes and pains in his chest and stomach. "Or in your music room for that matter. That poor piano will never be the sa-"

"_We're leaving now_! Goodbye, Matthew! Have a splendid afternoon and I do hope you come around soon, and that everything works about between you and Mr. Jones," Edelstein said in a shrill voice, dragging his boyfriend out of the room by the collar of his shirt. "Oh, and if you never hear from Gilbert again, you're free to assume the worst! I have no problem should you wish to press charges!"

Laughter increasing and the tears rolling freely down over his cheeks, Matthew covered his mouth as he did his best to try and inhale. The two lovers were still bickering and then the door to his apartment slammed shut and everything was silent. The laughter faded to soft giggles and he wiped uselessly at his eyes, letting out another few giggles before giving a high-pitched sigh and leaning back against the rungs of the chair. That had been exciting, so what now? Sit there again and stare at the four walls? Contemplate why he should be allowed to exist? Count the tiles - which he had already done, and as it stood, there were 264 between the kitchen and bathroom - and all the different knobs and hinges? Try and figure out the colour codes for all the different shades of paint and recreate them out of various foods and household cleaners? Surely that would make for some very engaging entertainment, would it not?

And so he was left there in his apartment, alone once more and not knowing what to do with himself.

Pathetic. That was the only word for it. Pathetic, dependant and a total fuck up.

He stayed there at the kitchen table for some time, staring out into the living room at nothing in particular, gnawing on his lower lip and playing with the pieces of cell phone set down before him. It was impossible to make up his mind about what he was going to do - what he was about to do, really. Something needed to be done. But it would be pointless because, at this rate, Alfred would never find out. He probably wouldn't see any of the texts he had been sending, and if he did, they probably meant nothing.

But he still needed to tell him; he still needed to let him know, even if telling someone via text message, for the first time, was the lamest and most unclassy and unromantic thing he could have ever done. Lame, too.

That knowledge did not stop Matthew from popping the battery back into the phone and bringing up a blank text message screen.

It did not stop him because there was another thought running through his head, as it had been for several weeks: what if Alfred had simply forgotten his phone and had gone on without it? Would he find the messages still there when he came back and picked up his phone again? Of course he would; the messages would be manually deleted unless his phone was batshit or something. So that meant there really was a possibly he could see it, which made it all not as unsettling.

Initially he hesitated again, typing slowly and then backspacing furiously several times before he finally felt he had gotten the message right. Matthew knew he had a way with words - he had been told that by his English teacher '_you could write lovely poetry if you didn't hate it so much. I mean really, I have never met, in all my years teaching, someone who can eloquently express their loathing of the poetic form through their very own Villanelle'_, but words were failing him. He couldn't even think of two words that made sense together in the exact same sentence.

Pressing _'Send' _after almost twenty minutes of debating whether or not he would send him the final product, which still felt pathetic and made him feel just as desperate as he sounded, Matthew sunk back in his chair and set the phone down on the table. That would be the last message he sent the American because honestly, if he sent anymore, he would probably pine to death over the imbecile as though he were some maiden that had lost her husband at sea to a vicious storm and a sunken, destroyed ship. Pining to death would suck. Bringing up his outbox, he clicked on the message he had just sent and re-read it, still wondering if it had been the right think to do, or if he should have waited it out a little longer than he already had (because five and a half weeks was nothing compared to six or seven).

_I love you, Alfred. Please, please don't make me be alone anymore. I can't handle it. Not now,  
not again. Never again. I love you and I just ... I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.  
I just know that I love you so much and that I want you here so badly it  
hurts. All I hope is that you're safe and doing okay wherever you are.  
_

No more texts; now he would just wait for absolutely nothing because that's what Matthew Williams was good at doing.

* * *

Yaaay filler chapter hehehe. That's why I got it written so fast. And some of you were thinking that this would be resolved in one chapter~ Oh ho ho not likely. Sob.

And 30 reviews last chapter? What? What? What? _**WHAT?**_

I love you all, so much. Like oh Christ it hurts. Thanks so much. ;w;


	22. Chapter 22

**CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.**

It was almost June, and despite the fact that along the breeze was carried the scent of industrialized America, it showed from how warm the air had become.

The sky overhead was a bright shade of blue and the sun was glaring, the light glinting off of the windshields of the cars that were spread out across the parking lot of the JFK International Airport. From the terminal there was a steady flow of traffic, both by land transportation and aerial, and there was a stream of yellow, New York taxis hanging out by the main entrance as loved ones greeted one another after a long stint of time being apart. The atmosphere smelt think of exhaust fumes, sea water and even more pollution. So different compared to what he had been experiencing for the past almost eight weeks. Even the sky seemed dull. It was all dead around him once more unlike everything he had finally grown used to. He huffed angrily. When they had left the airport, Arthur stopping and talking animatedly with someone he had run into for the first time in what had to be years, the American just stood there, feeling lost, empty, bitter and sickeningly alone.

He didn't want to watch husbands greeting their wives after coming back from a business trip; he didn't want to see grandparents picking up their grandchildren and hugging them, holding them close as the kid laughed and smiled brightly; he didn't want to see young couples, or tourists for that matter, holding hands and ogling the structures and giggling as they set eyes upon New York for the first time in their life. He didn't want to see any of that shit for the simple fact he knew he had no one there for him, waiting, wanting to see him, wanting to hold him and laugh and kiss him - and that there was a good chance he didn't have anyone waiting for him at all anymore.

Alfred's stomach clenched and his mouth was dry because he just didn't want to face what could be a potential reality, but he felt better for what he did - both physically and emotionally; the best he had in almost a year.

Several weeks ago that hadn't been the story, but since he had gotten through those weeks without throwing himself off of the White Cliffs of Dover, he felt like a champ.

(Even though he still felt like shit and had occasional, vicious cravings that he would simply sleep and eat off, but he could overlook that to a certain extent.)

Then, finally, Arthur approached him and smiled, their luggage in tow. Alfred, on the other hand, had only one bag with him as he had gotten rid of most of what he had brought over with him. In fact, now that he thought of it - relatively thankful for the momentary distraction from the slightly malicious thoughts he was having about the people greeting one another - he probably needed to go and get a whole new wardrobe. It was about time that he invested in a new one, though. "Are you ready to go?" he asked.

Glancing over to his brother, Al stared at him for a moment before the words seemed to register. And even then, they still did not fully clue in. He blinked. "Yeah," he said finally, turning his gaze back to the parking lot. "I'm ready."

The smile on Arthur's face faltered for a brief moment and he cocked his head slightly as he peered with concern at his younger sibling. "We could have stayed longer, you know," he said softly. "I wouldn't have minded; mum loved having us come around, too. So-"

"No, no," Al admonished with a quick grin. "Anyway, I've kept you from Peter for far too long as it is. I couldn't do that to the mini-limey. That would make me a bit of a bastard." _Or an even bigger one_, he thought bitterly, setting his jaw and breathing slowly through his nose. Just breathe, just breathe. But there was a certain monotony to it that had formed over the time. A kind he did not like. Breathing was so routine, so dull. _Monotonous_.

"Christ, Alfred," the Briton said with a heavy sigh. "The last thing either one of us would think you out to be is a bastard. Maybe if you randomly took me with you and gave no explanation, or something like that, then sure. But I was the one that took you to the UK, so no. If anyone's the bastard it would be me. Anyway, I talked to the lad every night over Skype, so there were no worries there - he didn't miss me too much."

Watching the older man that walked beside him, carefully studying his face and scrutinizing the way green eyes were directed firmly ahead of them, the lawyer found no reason to believe his brother was lying to him. Maybe he was just being paranoid in thinking Arthur had been lying. More than likely. He sighed, nodded and then hung his head a little, watching the pavement.

To an extent, he didn't even know why he had bothered with returning to New York. For one, he hated the fucking place with a passion. He felt so trapped and the city had been the start of all his problems to begin with. Only two good things had ever come from the Big Apple, those two things being his job and the young man whose life he had managed to force his way into and completely turn askew. Now, though, he was only certain of having one thing awaiting him (beside his cat) upon his return. That one thing was his job. With the way Matthew had blown up at him, the anger that had crossed his face and flared in each word he had managed to choke out before breaking down and sobbing right there in front of him, he had realized then and there that there was minimal opportunity for reconciliation between them. He had never seen the young man so enraged before; so utterly shattered and devastated.

It would be a miracle if the Canadian ever wanted to see him again.

'_Well, I did this for you_,' Alfred thought, feeling lower than he ever had in his life. He gave a bitter smile as his chest clenched. '_Hope it meets your standards._'

It would be a miracle, and it was the only thing he had prayed to happen for the first time in a long time.

"Do you remember where we parked?" Arthur asked suddenly, shielding his eyes from the sun as he scanned the parking lot they were currently in the process of wandering through, both men trying desperately to point out just where the _fuck _Alfred had parked his Cadillac.

The lawyer massaged his temple and shook his head, "No, not offhand," he said with a sigh, rolling back his shoulders as they cracked. His steps faltered for a second as he wobbled a little to the side, one foot crossing over the other in a failed attempt at steadying himself. Arthur, however, grabbed him by the elbow and forcefully up-righted him, earning a dopey smile of thanks from the New Yorker.

Giving him a skeptical look, the Briton frowned. "Did you even _sleep _on the flight?"

He shook his head 'no', grimaced at how it made his head pound all that much more and then gave a grunt that came from somewhere deep in his chest. "I haven't slept in, what, sixty-three hours now? I can't. I … it's the only thing I haven't really gotten back yet. Otherwise I feel fine. Just a little loopy. Anxious."

"Maybe you should have started taking the insomnia pills the doctor recommended for you when you stopped sleeping the last going off," Arthur sighed, shaking his own head as well. "Then you wouldn't have any trouble with sleeping."

"First off, all I did was fucking sleep. Sleep and eat. I mean, dude, I put on almost twenty pounds and I haven't been to a fucking gym in almost two months. I … I'm the Stay Puft Marshmallow man, for the love of God. So I think I can handle not sleeping for a few days. And number two is I don't want to put anything into my system, not anymore," Alfred said quietly. "I haven't drank or done anything in the past seven weeks. I feel so refreshed and human and like I got hit by a fucking Soviet war tank and then dragged through a few countries. But it's a good feeling. It's a _feeling, _ya know? Better than the lack of anything for the first two weeks." He gave a dead, hollow laugh that sort of trailed off into nothing.

A visible shudder rippled through the judge. "I never want to see you like that again," he croaked out in a low voice. "Never, do you understand?"

The lawyer thought about his brother's words, how hoarsely they were spoken and when he looked to the thirty-eight-year-old, he saw how haggard his expression was - how tired. To make himself feel a little better he simply told himself that it was because of the rough flight they had crossing the Atlantic, and not because the past while had taken an emotional toll on his brother, as well. The older man went through almost as many sleepless nights as he had, especially during the first full week - he had been worried to death over what he had considered the American's declining sanity.

Hesitantly, he reached out and squeezes Arthur's elbow, giving him a tiny smile. At it he looked relieved. "You have my word," he murmured in reply, nodding slowly and staring once more at the pavement. Arthur wouldn't have to worry about it anymore, because frankly, he wouldn't be seeing it; the plan he had now was to just lock himself in his apartment for as long as it took to get rid of everything he felt. And he had a feeling it would be months; according to the councillor he had seen several times while there, it could be several months before the cravings totally left him alone - although, he had said, it wouldn't take half as long as it would for a regular addict considering he had been weaning himself off of the drug since January, which was apparently a big step. It meant it would cut back on the severity of the withdrawal he would suffer from later on down the road. Maybe locking himself away like Rapunzel wouldn't be the wisest decision, though; he'd brood and dwell on everything, and more than likely, he'd consider selling his stocks and throwing himself out a window. Now that he was back in New York, he'd just start going to a therapist on a regular basis to try and work through his problems - something he should have done a long time ago - and he would start going to the gym again to try and drop the weight he had put on, and he'd keep up on his volunteer work. He was willing to do just about anything to stave off the loneliness he felt and the possibility of returning to drugs. And he'd cut back on the partying, too. No more going and drinking with the guys every Friday and Saturday night - he'd narrow it down to twice a month, maybe even less than that. Having purged alcohol from his system, as well, he felt good to a certain degree.

His head drooped a little and his eyes watered. Alfred blinked sluggishly and wiped at them, trying to bite back a yawn. He failed and let his jaw drop, his free hand going to cover it as he squinted before shutting his mouth and staring at the pavement once more, occasionally glancing upwards as they walked. Perhaps it was just from the lack of sleep he had been getting, but it was border lining impossible to keep his head up in order to look where he was going. Or maybe it was because the sun was too goddamn bright and his fucking sunglasses were in his Benz. Which was (hopefully) still in the parking garage. Then, he thought about it. Like, he really thought about it. Someone might have taken his Mercedes Benz. His AMG 65. The one that could go from zero to a hundred in 3.8 seconds. Oh, _Christ_, his _baby_. The precious sports car he had paid out almost a hundred grand for. His darling vehicle he had spent so much love and money on. Possibly gone. _Forever._

With the way his luck had gone, more than likely it had been towed and put in some kind of lock up and he'd never see it again.

One more thing to add to the list of things that were probably after being permanently removed from his life that was growing by the minute.

Then he suddenly stopped walking and grinned, tired eyes lighting up. "Oh, my baby," he crooned, walking over to his Escalade with a slight bounce in his step, hands pressed to his chest and his lips puckered. "Did you miss your daddy? Oh, I bet you did, Precious. Well there's no need to worry anymore; no more big bad New York thugs are going to look at you cause daddy's here. Yes he is, oh yes. Yes he is, my precious. And I'm not going to leave you anytime soon, oh no I'm not!"

"Now, do me a favour and hunch your back a little," Arthur said suddenly, watching the American and the oddly heartfelt reunion he was sharing with his vehicle.

Alfred stared at his brother for a moment, glanced around the parking lot and hummed. While his brother only made strange requests when he was drunk (or sobbed hysterically into the shoulder of the nearest, sorriest bastard of a bystander), this was just downright unusual. But he didn't see any reason not to humour the man - everything considered. "Uh, okay?" And so he hunched his back a little, staring over at the other man. "Now what?"

"Say 'My Precious' in a whispery sort of voice and, as you do, run your hand down the side of the car. Longingly. And with _passion._"

This was fucking ridiculous, on so many levels. Was he being exploited? Oh, man, he was definitely being exploited. That cheap dirty limey bastard. Alfred blinked several times, took another furtive look about the parking lot and huffed, doing just as his brother said, and then felt his cheeks go crimson when the man burst out laughing hysterically.

All he wanted to know was what the hell that had been all about. Nothing more, nothing less; he just wanted to be enlightened towards the fact as to why he had just had his dignity walked all over. Realization sort of dawned on him and all he wanted to do was slam his head into the door of his Escalade. Repeatedly. Forever. And then he huffed again, somewhat spitefully, puffing his cheeks and looking away from his still-almost-crying-from-laughing sibling. Lord of the Rings. Lord of the fucking Rings. Of _course_ the fucking limey had to make some dumbass reference to a movie he hadn't seen in positively ages because he happened to sit down and watch all three movies in one sitting a few weeks ago, when Alfred had spent several days sleeping on and off, efficiently worrying the fuck out of his brother to the point of not being able to sleep properly himself. It was what made him British, after all.

"I see what you did there, you fucking nerd."

Openly sneering at his younger brother, Arthur smirked and snatched the keys to the Escalade, unlocking the door and opening it, piling in on the driver's side once he had their luggage stuffed into the backseat. "You were the one that was stupid enough to fall for it, you bloody dipshit."

"You're cruel. So, so cruel," Alfred grunted as he flopped into the passenger seat, rubbing at his face as he yawned, slumping down a little once he had thrown his duffle bag into the backseat where Arthur had stowed his own gear away: two suitcases and his own carry-on. "I was, like, dead to the world when you watched it and the last time I saw those movies was when they came out. You can't do that to a guy, man. You just can't fucking do that."

"Well you're the one that spent three days sleeping. Straight. Not that I completely blame you," Arthur quipped brightly, turning the key in the ignition as he pulled on his seatbelt. Beside him, Jones remained stationary, yawned, and set his head down on the window as he blinked sluggishly. The moment he had sat down fatigue decided to crash down with him. "But seriously? Was three days necessary? And put on your seatbelt you fucking tosser."

"Yes, mother," Alfred grunted, grappling with the seatbelt before letting out a litany of swear words when he smacked himself in the face with the metal clip. Kneading at the cartilage, he hissed and then sniffed; praying to God his nose wasn't bleeding. Slipping his fingertips beneath his nostrils, he pressed them there and pushed up, taking them away after a moment. No bleeding. He exhaled slowly and shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"Someone has to be," Arthur huffed as he threw the vehicle into drive, turning sharply and then grimacing. At his words, the lawyer froze, expression clouding over for a moment as he sunk back against the leather of his seat. He chewed upon his lower lip and then sighed. Upon him saying that, the memory of him and Matthew when they had been out walking in January - they had left Starbucks and were just outside of the Canadian's apartment - fleetingly went past and he turned his gaze upwards and to the roof. What his brother had said just then was eerily similar to what Mattie had that evening. Hearing that had been an immediate downer for him.

At his reaction, Arthur frowned lightly. "Are you alright? You look kind of pale all of a sudden."

"Just tired," he said quietly. Such a pathetic liar; fuck sakes, he was even worse than what Allan was when it came to lying. Tiredness wasn't entirely it, but at the moment it was a plausible excuse and what he had to go for was believable above all else. Something he would be able to scrape by on. "I think I'm going to go back to sleep when you drop me off at my pla- oh, hey, _there's_ my phone!"

The Briton scoffed and then let out a rainbow of swear words, slamming on both the brakes and horn all at once as some idiot cut them off, screaming obscenities at the other driver, his voice cracking dangerously as though he were finally getting his foot in the door of puberty. Poor bastard. Alfred stared at him for a long moment, glanced out the window and then back to his livid and still-swearing brother before grabbing his phone and physically making the point to edge away from him and press up against his door, as if doing so would make him that much more safer. Turning his phone on with a sigh as he tried to ignore his irate sibling that was driving at a speed that was a little too dangerous for his liking than what he should be and who was muttering passive-aggressively in the same way Matthew would beneath his breath about how New York was going to be the bloody fucking end of him and/or his sanity levels.

"I told you that you didn't lose it, idiot," Arthur snapped, pulling onto the main road a little faster than he really should have, earning him a few anger-blown horns. Another smattering of curses left him. "You forgot it in your goddamn cup holder because you were in such a rush to get to the airport when I told you where I was taking you. I mean, you never even _called_ Matthew to tell him … the poor bloke probably threw _out_ his rocker with worry about you, considering the fact that he's relatively off it as it stands."

Alfred snorted, feeling his heart sink a little. "He probably doesn't give a shit," he snapped crossly, sinking down in his seat and sulking as the screen of his phone slowly loaded, icons popping up alongside missed calls and text notices. Some from Audrey, some from Chris. One call from Jeff. "Honestly, with how he freaked out at me, I seriously think he'd be happy to never see me again."

Silence hung between them at first, as though the judge were grappling with the right words to try and use. "Don't be too sure about that, Al," he said quietly. Green eyes were serious but still locked unwaveringly upon the blacktop before them. New York hadn't changed one bit in the eight weeks they were gone. A true, fucking shame. "His initial reflex must have just kicked in, and then you didn't bother with calling him when we managed to get a flight out within the hour of you showing up at my place. If it's what I say, and not what you say, then how do you think he is?"

While he didn't want to accept his words at all, didn't want to listen to or believe him for even a moment, he couldn't help but wince at the logic that was behind the thought; Matthew was a react now, think about it later kind of guy. For as long as they had known each other, that was his way. Like that time he had brought the gun into the kitchen, intent on shooting the kneecaps off of him when he had thought there was an intruder in his apartment that November morning. React first, think second. Yup, that sure was Mattie Williams, alright.

Fucking Christ.

Alfred felt the colour drain from his face when he glanced at the missed text messages from the young Canadian they were talking about. "I … I think you might be right," he croaked out. "There's … there's eighteen missed texts from him. And … the last one dates back to almost two weeks ago. Fuck my _life, _man_;_ he hates text messaging as it stands." He inhaled deeply and brought up the first message sent, bracing himself in a way. Emotionally, mainly. It was hard for him to tell, exactly, what to expect. For there to be that many missed text messages - he wasn't even going to count the missed calls that were listed there - that had to mean something. _Anything. "_Alright, let's start reading this shit."

"While you're reading that, I'll drive you home," Arthur suggested lowly, glancing over to his brother, frowning at the look of concentration upon his face. "And I'll just grab a cab from your place to get back to mine. Also, I don't want you behind the wheel of a vehicle until you've had at least a good week's worth of sleep, do you understand me?"

Apologies. There were so many of them; he was pretty sure the Canadian had never said sorry so many times in his life - which was saying something. Y'know. Considering the fact that he was Canadian and all. Barely listening to Arthur, the lawyer only gave a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgement, a tiny smile lighting up his face as he read about Matthew suspecting him having been eaten by sewer creatures; and considering it was New York City and that there were supposedly alligators and fantastic shit like that living beneath them, the idea wasn't totally dismissible.

His smile faltered and fell altogether once he started reading the messages after that and his heart clenched in a way that made him panic for a moment; he thought it had stopped beating altogether and he did not quite know what to do. The messages that were there from the Canadian were disheartening and made him want to sink down into the seat like a ghost would phase through the floor. Primarily, they were screaming anxiety and then slowly turning to the path of being unhappy. Then the messages went from mildly subdued to downright heartsick. Alfred didn't think the younger man could even feel that way, but apparently he could. "_I miss you, Alfred. More than I thought I could. Please talk to me again__._" He bit down on his lip and swallowed against the lump in his throat.

How could he have just gone without even letting him know? What had possessed him to do that - other than the sheer panic he had felt at losing the young man? Unsure of what it was, he knew then he needed to figure it out and then find a way to beat it out of himself.

Then, once he came to the final message, he dropped the phone into his lap and covered his mouth, eyes blurring over and his breath hitching. Christ on crackers. He couldn't have read what he thought he just did. Picking up the phone, he glanced at it again before tossing it back down to sit uselessly upon his thighs as he head reeled and coherent thought flew out the window. There was no way. Even after all that happened, there was no fucking way oh good Lord how did he manage to pull something like this off. All this - every single bit of chaotic shit he had put them through, had put himself through, had put others through, had put _Matthew_ through - had still somehow amounted to this in the end. One single little confession that had officially done him in. A choked noise passed his lips and he shut his eyes, breathing in slowly. As slowly and as deeply as he could without causing himself to hyperventilate: that same, monotonous routine the shrink had shown him. But right now it suited him perfectly in a way it never had before.

Movement had suddenly ceased. Next thing he was acutely aware of was the vehicle being pulled over to the side of the road and the key jerked back so that the Escalade was idling. Arthur had turned in his seat, watching the man with anxiety scrawled all over his face. "Is everything alright, Alfred?" he demanded sharply. "Talk to me."

At first he didn't say anything - couldn't say anything. He was beyond words. Beyond coherency. Then he made another choked noise and simply shoved his phone into the lily white hands of the judge. Blinking slowly with confusion, Arthur glanced to the half-dead phone he now held and then to the man that stared off into space with a look on his face that was a mixture of pure melancholy and a sort of excitement; of dazed happiness. It was odd to see the two expressions together at the same time, but all the same the Briton turned his eyes to the phone, squinting and then pulling it away as he read the text that was there, eyes gradually widening. Reading what was there and looking to the man, considering his situation and everything attached to it, it was easy to understand why he had reacted that way.

Gingerly, he set the phone down and placed his hands on the steering wheel, staring out through the windshield with a blank expression. Then he drummed his fingertips on the bottom of the wheel.

"Oh, _my_."

A heavy silence dangled between them, painfully tangible. Arthur flexed his hands idly while Alfred picked his phone back up, read the message several times over and felt absolutely floored. Running around and screaming probably wouldn't be enough to get out all the emotions he was feeling at the one damn time.

"Could you, ah-"

"Drive you over to Matthew's apartment?"

Upon his suggested request, there was a low rumble and slight vibration throughout the body of the vehicle as it was started back up.

"That …would be perfect."

He was given a smile in return to his statement, and after a moment of snarling and cursing, the Englishman finally managed to pull the Escalade back out into the traffic. It was a funny process, watching his brother drive through Manhattan. The entire time he muttered about how he was meant to drive on the _other_ side of the road, and how he was supposed to be driving a Buick which was a far superior brand of automobile and had such a better technology at its disposal because it was _German engineering _and one did not fuck with the German's and their engineering because that just meant you were screwed for the long term.

It felt like the longest drive of his life - the trek from the JFK International Airport to Matthew's apartment made the time it took to fly non-stop between Singapore and Newark he had once taken seem like a waltz around the block. He fidgeted the entire time, picking at his clothing and looking around, fiddling with buttons and zippers and the hem of his t-shirt. Everything had suddenly grown so fucking _fascinating _as he mentally urged his brother to drive above the speed limit because goddamnit, he was in fucking New York now and it was what people did. Remaining stationary was impossible when he knew exactly what it was he was simply minutes away from; who it was. And so to stave off an emotional melt down of sorts he resorted to playing with different radio stations, different climate control settings, screwing around with the different fans and the heating levels of the seats until Arthur screamed at him to fuck off or he was going to throw him out the door and make him walk the rest of the way to the Canadian's apartment because, sure he felt bad for the guy, but his own fucking sanity came first.

So the last ten minutes of the drive was spent with Alfred shifting anxiously and trying desperately to keep the sweat from his palms. Even now his mind still could not grasp anything similar to a mental sort of stability; his thoughts were all over the place, scattered and fraying, but all pertaining to the same damn thing. All he could think about that text. Those three little words he had used; they were the only thing that played through his mind. Sure, it was as lame as fuck to tell someone that you loved them for the very first time via a text message, but as he read it when his world still felt like it was teetering back and forth between sweet oblivion and sheer emotional carnage, something solidified. Something stabilized when everything else was trembling precariously and he just needed to latch onto it the best way he possibly could before it all fell apart again.

"_I love you_-"

And then he realized, with a sort of giddiness, that that was the first time anyone had told him that they were in love with him; that they needed him, wanted him, whatever. Not even in high school - although he was the jock, the kid with the money, the one everyone who was someone hung out with - no one had ever approached him with any sort of affection; there were plenty of girls that were infatuated with him, that he knew. But what he didn't know was how to approach them about it; so he just didn't. He let girls make out with him even if he didn't want them, he'd sleep with them if they really bothered him about it (it wasn't until college until he got awfully dreadful for sleeping around with girls. The guys said it was because he was good in bed. Alfred knew it was because he was lonely).

But here he was, twenty-six-years-old and being told he was loved (by someone other than his mother) for the very first time. And by a dude, none the less. A dude that was prettier than most girls and had a better ass than a good few of them, but a dude all the same.

Nothing had ever felt as perfect as this; perfect in a way that was stupid and it was almost transcendent of every single thing he had ever experienced in his life.

Noticing that the Escalade was beginning to slow, he dropped his cell phone on the seat and bolted. The car had barely stopped and Alfred was already out, nearly strangling himself with the seatbelt and tripping over the curb and just barely catching himself in the process. His palms grazed the concrete and he growled, wiping the dirt and ripped skin off on his pants and hissing at the bite of the stinging sensation.

"Wha- Alfred! _Alfred_ you git, wait for me to pull the bloody car over for the love of Christ!" Pivoting and throwing his arms up in the air, Alfred grinned with a manic sort of excitement. Blue eyes were positively alight with what could only be described as life - something they had been abandoned of for a while now - and he could feel his cheeks aching from just how much it hurt to be smiling so broadly. Laughter left him. "Shit happens, bro!" he declared. "I'll call you later, a'ight?"

For a moment Arthur just sat there and watched his brother as he ran up over the flight of stairs attached to the side of the house, wondering just what it was that was keeping him awake. Maybe it was the message, and the possibility of what was waiting for him - or more like whom. But then, when he glanced to the phone that lay forgotten on the seat, he frowned. Picking it up, he looked at the date of the last message. Almost two full weeks ago, and nothing else had been sent since then. There weren't even any missed calls from the artist. He couldn't help but wonder if everything was alright on the other end, as well.

A thoughtful look crossed his face and he sunk back against the seat, flexing his hands on the steering wheel for a moment, looking away from his brother as he knocked on the door, steadily letting his fist hit the window there. It was impossible to keep a smile off of his face. Instead of watching the man waiting for his friend to answer the door, he threw the Escalade into drive and pulled away from the curb altogether, honking the horn as he decided, somewhat exhaustedly, that he really needed to go home and take a bubble bath because he fucking deserved that and then some.

As his brother drove away, leaving him there to essentially fend for himself, Alfred remained at the door, arms folded over his chest as he waited for the Canadian to answer the door. Impatiently tapping his foot, he looked around, sighed heavily and bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. No one came, and he glanced at his watch. It was almost six o'clock in the evening - their flight had been delayed by almost twelve hours as it was - so he should have been home by now. There was no way he had gone out, because he usually didn't do things on a weeknight. Fucking home body. Again he rapped his knuckles on the door, this time a little harder.

Waiting a few minutes, he started gnawing on his lower lip when there was once more no answer. His stomach was after coiling into a pool of anxiety and frayed nerve endings, and mixed with the exhaustion he felt, all of it was just throwing itself together into one giant, heaping pot of potential emotional freak-out.

He slammed his fist several times on the door and huffed. If he didn't hear that - when the neighbourhood more than likely had - then he couldn't be home. Maybe he had stayed later than usual at work? Or, he could have been hanging out with Gilbert, right?

Then, a thought crossed his mind. The guy _was _a bit of an airhead as it stood, and a complete space cadet when he started to get into his painting. Maybe that's what it was? Wrapping his fingers around the doorknob, he jiggled it and then paled when the door popped open, inching back with a slight creak.

Okay, that was cool. Either he went out and had forgotten to lock the door behind him, he was painting and off in his own little world or he had-

'_No, Jones,_' he hissed at himself as he slid silently, unannounced, into his friend's apartment, shutting the door behind him and locking it as he toed off his shoes. He kicked them off to the side; Matthew's sneakers were still there, as was his bright red sweater. '_You're being fucking neurotic. Stop it. Now._'

Removing his sweater and draping it over the back of the arm chair in the entryway - seeing all the books there, various history books, books on math and physics, and novels upon novels upon novels - a small smile crossed his face. Well, he hadn't moved, at least. That was one thing that he could keep some hope over, right? As he wandered down the hall, he peered into Matthew's bedroom. The bed was made, and it looked as though it hadn't been unmade in quite some time. A frown happened upon his lips, but he didn't go in to check and see if that was the case - if there was a layer of dust on the blanket, he would probably screech.

Every situation possible was coming to mind, and Alfred felt slightly crazy for it. He was paranoid and anxious, and because of the fact that there was no one coming to him being like 'what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?', he felt more than out of place. Like he didn't have the right to actually be there.

Backing out of the room and moving in the direction of the living room with a little more purpose than the first time around, he stopped when he got to the end of the hallway and, shoulders slumping, a sigh of relief passed his lips.

Oh, thank God.

Matthew was curled up on the sofa, several blankets thrown over him and sound asleep, the hood of his sweater pulled up over his head and his glasses askew. Tucked beneath his chin was a bundle of white, and he realized that it was the polar bear teddy he had bought him back in January. His skin was pallid, and even though he was solid, he still looked like hell. With a slight flaring of anger and dismay, Alfred saw how his face was after thinning out again; he had lost weight again. And from the looks of it, it was a lot. Too much. Glancing over to the sink, he saw that there were a few dishes piled there, but for all he knew they could have been there for weeks now. Maybe they were there for show.

Slowly he approached the sleeping Canadian, hands in his pockets as he tilted his head a little, studying his slack face. His eyes were shadowed and, if he was awake, Alfred knew the young man would more than likely have the bloodshot eyes of an insomniac. He spared a glance to the coffee table and sighed, seeing a bottle of pills there and a half-full glass of water. Sleeping pills. Inside, his stomach churned. Last time he checked, Matthew wasn't on sleeping pills. He picked them up and felt a slight sense of relief when he realized it was still full of medication, and when he looked to the date on he - his gut churned when he saw it was actually prescribed to him via McKnight - he sighed. A week ago he had been given them. Crouching beside him as he set the pill bottle back on the table, and then going to outright sit on the floor, he ran his fingers down along a pale, cool cheek and sighed, resting his head on the sofa while the young man slept.

Senseless as it was to put his head down and stay there quietly, not even admitting to his presence when the main reason he had gone there was to tell Matthew everything, he couldn't wake the sleeping man up. There was something in him that was just telling him 'no, let him wake up on his own' because if the pills were any indication, then he must have been suffering from some sort of insomnia. Whether or not it was related to him not being there he could not be sure of. He hoped it wasn't, but that vain little part of him had a feeling that it was. Vanity was usually incorrect when it came to something like that, but there was also a gut feeling there that was agreeing.

Then, the lump of Canadian on the sofa stirred with a light grunt before burrowing himself down further into the cushions.

Looks like he wasn't going to be waiting there for as long as he anticipated.

Sitting up almost immediately, Alfred watched him as he stirred, realizing he was waking up. Déjà-vu hit him all of a sudden and he couldn't help but let out a choked laugh. It felt so much like that first time he was in Mattie's apartment - his old one, back in Brooklyn - and the artist had passed out from being so run-down and sick. He remembered, as clearly as if it had happened just moment ago, catching him when he collapsed. This was what it felt like. Coming full-circle.

A sleepy grunt came from Mattie, and Alfred couldn't help but chuckle. Absolutely precious. He ran his fingertips down a thinned-out cheek and sighed. "C'mon Mattie, wake up," he urged softly, cupping his jaw and smiling gently.

A bloodshot eye peeked open to regard him with a sort of hostility and then the Canadian huffed, burying himself down even further. "Don' wanna," he slurred tiredly. Unable to help but laugh, Alfred gave him a light shake.

"Wakey-wakey, Pet," he murmured, pressing his lips by his ear, nuzzling his cheek tenderly and then pulling back sharply with a growled curse of surprise when Matthew sat upright in one swift movement.

"A-A-_Al_?" he choked out, a hand going to cover his mouth. His eyes were wider than he had ever seen them and, suddenly, he was visibly shaking all over. Uncontrollably. "You … oh my God. _You_ … I … y-you c-"

Alfred jolted and then grinned. "Alfred F. Jones, the one and only hero," he said softly, cutting him off mid-sentence. He took his hand and gave it a firm squeeze as though he were attempting to reassure him the best he could. "At your service." He gave him the best grin he could muster that moment and the look on the other's face was positively heartbreaking.

Instantaneously, as though the reaction had been long-since predetermined, he was thrown backwards up against the coffee table, a shout of pain and surprise was startled out of him and he suddenly had a lapful (a very desirable thing to have) of Matthew - a babbling, trembling and mildly hysterical Matthew Williams. Impossible as it was to understand exactly what it was he was saying, Alfred somehow managed to get the gist that the Canadian may or may not have been very happy to see him again. Which filled him with an endless amount of relief, but also to an extent, it filled him with a little bit of bile because neither of them would be in this situation had he not left, had Matthew not blown up at him, had Matthew not found out the way he had.

And then the Canadian's fist connected with his jaw.

Black dots danced in front of his eyes and he found himself giddily wondering about the physics of being punched in the face as well as why it was happening. Then the pain hit. Eyes flying wide and his glasses being knocked from his face because of the movement, he jerked his head back and stared at Mattie, shocked. Discomfort flared along his jaw and it practically burned. That was _not _the reaction he had been expecting, at all. If ever, really. The right side of his face positively throbbed and, when he brought his fingertips to the corner of his mouth, he grimaced when they came away with blood spots on them. Shit; the artist's right hook had gotten better since the last time he had experienced it. Who the hell was he practicing on?

"That's what y-you get for fucking _leaving_ me w-without saying _one goddamn word_," Matthew hissed venomously in a shrill voice that cracked several time, eyes narrowed into dangerous, exhausted slits. Cheeks that were previously the colour of parchment had flushed from the obvious rage he was feeling. "I s-should break your fucking _face_, you k-know that? I-I can't b-believe you would _do _something l-like that!" He gave a weak laugh that was followed by a dry sob; he sounded as though he were almost slipping into a relief-driven delirium.

"Mattie," Alfred whispered, drawing the enraged Canadian back to his chest and holding him there tightly, surprised when he didn't struggle but just simply collapsed against him, "please just … please listen to me, okay? Just do me a favour and hear me out, alright?"

It appeared as though he were going to argue against the American's request from the angry look that flashed through his darkened eyes, but then he said nothing - just nodded and went slack against his body, the grip he had on the American's torso vice-like. But Alfred didn't mind; not one little bit. He would have preferred it should Matthew never let go of him again, as it stood.

"Honestly, I didn't think you'd want to talk to me," he said weakly, burying his nose in the blonde curls by his mouth and inhaling deeply. "I wasn't even going to stop by here, at least not for another few weeks. Figured I'd give you more than enough space. But I … not after. I just needed to see you and fuck I'm beyond sorry, Mattie. I wasn't thinking straight when I left - fuck, I'm still not thinking straight now - but I … you-you were just so mad at me and I didn't want to piss you off anymore than what I already had. So I just … I just left."

"You just … _left_? Even though I was so pissed you didn't even consider coming and telling me? Not even a text message?"

Alfred gave a singular nod.

"… Without saying a word to _anyone_?"

Pausing, he hesitated a moment before shrugging. "Well, I said nothing to no one besides Ol' Eyebrows and the Justice department; I had to put in for an extended leave of absence - Chris is currently acting as the temporary DA for the Manhattan region, so I daresay he's as happy as a pig in shit."

Digesting this silently, he nodded lightly. "I see. Where … where did you go, then?" Matthew asked softly, voice muffled from having his face still stuffed against Alfred's chest as the man cradled him there. He seemed to have calmed down from his initial ire.

"I've been in Canterbury for the past seven weeks, with Arthur," he murmured, absent-mindedly playing with one of his curls. "Stayed in his house there, and he just kind of let me do my own thing and he was there when I needed someone to be. Went to London a few times; drove to Edinburgh for the shits and giggles once I started to come around again. Then I just kind of crashed again so we stayed at his summer home outside of Kent. I … I never thought I'd want to see small-time England, y'know, cause it's so damn British and middle-of-nowhere. But I think it's what I needed. None of this New York shit, because this is the place that started the problem. Manhattan and Harvard. Something sprawling and fresh and clean and pure to actually solve the problems I managed to create for myself. That was what I needed." He felt as though he were trying to reassure himself and not Matthew by saying this.

At this, he sat up and narrowed his eyes quizzically, gently pressing his fingertips to Alfred's jaw. "What you _needed_?" he inquired, voice trembling. There were tears in his eyes, tears the American did not want to see there ever again, and so he swiped them away with the pad of his thumb. "What do you … mean by … tha- oh my God, Alfred? Did you-" His eyes were saucer-like.

He gave a weak smile that barely managed to go past his lips; all of a sudden he just felt so tired - his body felt like it was about to crash and he just needed to do nothing more than sleep and hold Matthew as close to him as he possibly could. Keep him there, where he knew the Canadian would be safe, and he'd be fine for the long run. More than once the thought of his safety had crossed his mind, and all he could do was silently hope nothing had happened to him; that He hadn't gotten to him. "I haven't done or seen a single line of coke in the past seven weeks. Not since what happened," he murmured, shutting his eyes and burying his face in Matthew's neck and just _breathing. _

Arms, skinny and trembling, wound themselves tightly around his shoulders and a hand settled on his back as Matt held him close, whispering an '_Oh God' _which made Alfred want to tell him that God had nothing to do with it; not unless Matthew was some sort of martyr saint and had said nothing of it to him. Then maybe God did, indeed, have something to do with it after all. Even as Alfred managed to snatch one of the blankets off of the sofa to drape around them the grip on his upper body did not falter. His friend continued to hold him as close as he possibly could, mouth by his temple and body feeling far too thin beneath his sweater. He held him closer than he ever had before and buried his face in his neck, feeling his breath catch. Even beneath the material of his sweater, when he put his hands on the Canadian's side, he could feel his ribs; could feel him shudder lightly each time he inhaled.

"You … you've lost weight. That's not very good, Pet," Alfred admonished quietly, eyes narrowing. "What did I tell you about doing that? Do I have to tie you down and force-feed you Big Macs and McChickens for a month? Because I ain't afraid to Super Size them all, either."

Matthew huffed and forced Alfred to stick his head back down in the crook of his shoulder. The lawyer chuckled and then somehow managed to worm his way out of his grasp. When he grinned up at him, he saw that the young man was slightly put-off and mildly flustered. "We're not discussing me, so don't even try it," Mattie snapped. "We can worry about my weight later. That shit isn't even near as important as what we have to talk about." He paused, chewing on his lip. "But I really don't get it. You went to _England_ to stop doing cocaine?"

Unsure of what to say, Alfred paused and stared off towards the kitchen, the smallest of frowns tugging his lips downward. "Yeah, I did," he said quietly. "For the simple fact that it was a place I don't know; there wouldn't be the temptation to fall back onto the drugs, y'know? And Arthur was more than willing to help me. It was more of an emotional and mental rehab than actually going and sitting down in a center filled with other addicts which probably wouldn't do much good for me anyway. I use solitude to make things right with myself, not group pow-wows with cupcakes, tea and colouring sheets that are supposed to make you feel better about yourself when you were the one that fucked up in the first place. It was like he said, as long as I was away from the place where the problem stemmed for at least a little while, then … then I should be fine."

"Understandable; I wish I could have done the same thing." Laughing bitterly and nodding slowly, Matthew suddenly sighed and shifted slowly, pressing closer and letting his legs wrap around his waist. He smiled and pressed in close to Al. "So, well, what did you do while you were there? S-Sorry if I'm playing twenty-one questions."

"No worries, man. I basically slept and ate," he chuckled with a wry expression. "But I also picked up guitar while I was there, spent hours upon hours reading Arthur's history and philosophy books as well as picking up meditation. I felt really dorky at first, but turns out it's an amazing way to stave off a craving for cocaine."

"Well you don't have to do too much work to empty your thoughts, so I guess that makes it a bit easier, eh?" Mattie asked softly, his smile quivering at the corners.

"Prick."

"Asshole."

"Dickface."

"Hoser."

Alfred opened his mouth to retort and a hand was slammed down over it, Matthew glaring at him over the top of his glasses. It was a withering look, but after all the time they spent together, it had finally lost its initial vicious edge and, to him, felt more along the lines of good-natured. Just slightly crazy and very passive-aggressive. "Don't even say it. Don't you even fucking _think_ about it because I don't want to hea-_aaaahhhh and don't lick my fucking hand you retard panda!_"

Retard panda. That was a new one. Had he come up with that while he was gone, or just on the spot? Like an instinctive reflex? Who had that kind of reflex anyway - well, aside from Mattie? A blank look registered on Alfred's face, and he didn't even think when he spoke: "_Eh_?"

Neither man reacted at first, but then when the word clued in and they thought about what the hand over the mouth had been originally intended for Matthew burst out laughing at this, which Alfred couldn't help but feel both relieved and glad to hear. Many times the thought had crossed his mind that he wouldn't be able to hear that again; or anything from him, for what mattered. He buried his face in the Canadian's neck as he slowly fell silent again and he blushed when he felt brittle fingers running through his hair. His eyes were beginning to grow heavy; burning with fatigue. Nothing felt better than being held by the younger man, finally. Exhaling tiredly, he nuzzled at his neck and smiled. Maybe everything wasn't going to be as awful as he thought it would be. Matthew didn't seem as though he hated him (well, considering the way they were seated, curled up together and under a blanket, and the young artist in question refusing to relinquish his grip on him) and, well, maybe they could work it from there. Make things function; makes things good again.

"I can't believe you did it," Matthew suddenly whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I just … I know what I did was wrong, and fuck I don't think I could even begin to apologize to you enough. But I just - I didn't …" Words seemed to have failed him.

"You didn't think I would take you seriously?" Alfred queried, speaking in muffled tones into his shoulder, not wanting to pull away from the warmth of his body. He felt as though he had found the perfect haven.

"I don't _know_ what I thought because I can tell you that when I found you doing that, I just stopped thinking and I don't think I started thinking again - at least as coherently as it's possible for me - until the day after," he said quietly. "It's funny, but the entire time you were gone, the thought that you might have left to detox yourself never crossed my mind. Not even once. Kind of stupid of me, eh?"

"No, no it's not stupid," he replied, begrudgingly pulling away from the heat of his body to give him a reassuring smile. It didn't quite work; Matthew looked at him and then down, chewing on his lower lip. Jones sighed. "I probably wouldn't have thought of it, either. Abducted by aliens, maybe. Or, y'know, eaten by a sewer creature - I don't even _want_ to know where you got that idea from. Justifiable, yes. Still don't wanna know, though. I would have thought of those things. But not putting yourself through a voluntary rehab for the person you love. Maybe we're both stupid."

Freezing, Matthew's head shot back up and he stared at Alfred with wide eyes, mouth opening and closing several times, surprise rending his vocal cords useless. Warmth made its way into the tips of his ears. "Y-You-" He made a strangled noise and fell silent again.

Rending him speechless several times in the span of twenty minutes?

Brilliant show, Jones. Let's call up the Academy and get you an award, stat!

"I only just got your texts this morning," he said in a low voice, swallowing thickly. Now it was his turn to avert his gaze. "All of them. I …" Alfred laughed and rested back against the coffee table, looking to him and smiling when he saw just how pink his cheeks had gotten. "Is it true? What you said? D-Did you mean it?"

Mathew bit his lip and then looked down, shutting his eyes and nodding slowly. During the moment of silence he held, it was as if he was coming to terms with his emotions and thoughts, and was emotionally prepping himself to voice them aloud. "Y-Yeah. All of it. Every fucking word."

Tipping his chin upwards, forcing him to look even if he did not want to, Alfred smiled softly. He felt positively fervent. "You better," he grunted. "Cause the only reason I did all that was to stay with you."

Laughing in a way that was capricious, Matthew flushed and smiled idiotically and it was the happiest Alfred had ever seen him. The smile was different from any other he had seen him wear, and it just seemed to completely fill his face and his eyes. Upon seeing it, Alfred decided right then and there at this was officially a now or never situation. And so, with this in mind, he just moved forward without a word of warning or indication about what it was he was about to do to the Canadian and pressed his mouth over his. There wasn't going to be any hesitating; there wasn't going to be any skittering around and debating. It just had to happen, and he wasn't going to fucking ask him permission - not now, knowing that he was in love with this guy and that it was, finally, something mutual.

He just needed to kiss him just as much as he needed to breathe, whether or not that might have been the biggest cliché he had ever been part of.

Alfred felt a shiver pass through Matthew as he wrapped his arms around his neck, fingers threading through the hairs at the nape of his neck and simultaneously pressing his body closer to the older man as one broad hand went to settle on the small of his back and the other slipped behind the back of his head. Al kept him in place, but he knew the artist probably wasn't planning on going anywhere just yet. His lips were so soft, and they were cool; dry. They moved against his own with a sort of reservation, almost like a kind of anxiousness, and when they pulled apart, his cheeks were dusted scarlet and his lips were bright pink and damp. Shining because of the angle the sun had achieved as it filtered in through the curtains covering the window. Indigo eyes were wide and he licked at his lips. Then a delighted grin broke out across his face and he pulled Alfred back for another kiss, to which the American responded with a laugh of surprise and he couldn't help but feel mildly enchanted.

Sitting there on the floor, with Matthew curled up in his lap and both of them bundled up beneath the thick, fleece quilt, kissing one another to the point of breathlessness, hands roaming and touching in spots they had never dared to before, made the past almost-two months worth everything. It was worth the never-ending exhaustion. It was worth the depression. It was worth the anxiety. It was worth the malaise that plagued him for weeks on end. It was worth the loneliness at all hours. It was worth the frequent, three-in-the-morning emotional meltdowns from hell. It was worth gaining almost thirty pounds. It was worth the chain smoking; the binge drinking of god-awful coffee.

It was worth all of it and then some.

But, the question was, would he go through all of that again?

Answer:_ Not fucking likely._

Pulling away again, desperately needing to breathe but this time with the taste of Matthew's mouth on his tongue - a taste he never wanted to rid himself of - he found his lips were almost throbbing in a way. Tingling, throbbing and warm. Almost descriptive of the way he felt, but not strongly enough. Euphoric. That was more like it. It was the only word to describe how he felt; nothing else even came close. Not even by a longshot.

A comfortable silence falling between them, different from the other ones and feeling a little more complete, Alfred placed his head back down on Matthew's shoulder while the Albertan rested his head atop Al's. Fingers returned to tracing furrows through his ashy hair.

"I'm sorry," Mattie whispered, "for everything."

"Don't be," he muttered, tightening his grip on the thin waist in front of him. He'd bitch at him later about the weight loss; he didn't quite want a few ill-placed words to ruin this. "I'd still be in that mess, and chances are, we'd still be at the same point as what we were at the lake."

"More unresolved sexual tension than a romantic comedy?" he asked dryly, pinching at Al's jaw with a grin on his face. "Yeah, you're probably right. Oh, by the way, you should be my boyfriend."

The words did not register right away; it was almost as though the Canadian had suddenly started speaking in Charlie Brown-speech. Finally, when it clued into him what he was saying, his eyes lit up and his face practically split in two thanks to the stupid smile that started taking up space there.

How fucking casual could he get?

Alfred chuckled and then sighed heavily. "Well, all things considered, that sounds like it would be lovely," he murmured, kissing the neck by his mouth. "I would _love_ to be your boyfriend." Another kiss to the hollow of his throat, just above his collar bone.

"That's good then," he hummed. He felt the vibrations against his lips; his cheek. "Very good."

Not saying anything right away, Alfred nodded. Saying this was good was an understatement. Perfect was probably a far more appropriate word to use given the situation. They were finally a 'something' now, and not 'just friends'. After all this time, he had finally managed to find someone that-

"I'm tired," he blurted out suddenly. "Like, really fuckin' tired, man."

_Way to ruin the moment, dipshit_, a little voice grumbled from the back of his mind.

"Well, you _do _look like shit," Matthew murmured, gently running his fingers through Alfred's hair and sighing lightly, watching as the older man's eyes fluttered as he struggled to stay awake. "Maybe you should go to sleep."

Pointedly ignoring what was said about how he looked, Alfred just grunted in a neanderthalic way. "But I dun' wanna call a cab," he said with a yawn; the full effects of nearly three days worth of exhaustion, including severe jet lag, had hit him so suddenly, and now it had become a struggle to even talk. Perhaps it was from the relief of knowing Matthew was fine; the comfort he felt just from being in his presence - he had this soothing sort of presence, even if he could be just about as callous as they came.

Expression going blank, he tutted and then huffed. "Alfred, you're free to stay and sleep in my bed," he grumbled, shaking his head ruefully and scowling at the blissful semi-unconscious imbecile snuggled in against his chest. "You've already slept in my bed _how _many times?"

"Yeah, but, I've taken up the habit of sleeping for, well, a long time," he murmured. "So jet lag paired with three days of no sleep and just constantly feeling like I'm crashing is a recipe for me staying in your bed and sleeping solidly for two days. Are you alright with that?"

"I'm perfectly fine with that," Matthew said softly, finally disentangling his limbs from the lawyer's with a grimace; his hip popped audibly and Alfred cringed at the same time as he did. One hand on the table for balance, he hoisted himself up into a standing position, shutting his eyes briefly as the room around him spun in lazy, looping circles; he had given up telling it to remain stagnant and fixed for the simple fact that nothing listened to him. "Sleep there for as long as you want."

Alfred, who had stood as well and watched as Mattie's face paled briefly with a feeling of concern blooming in his chest, nodded dazedly. "Sure, sure," he said. Stretching lazily, the hem of his t-shirt riding up until his tugged it back down, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Even his _muscles_ had gone to jelly. "I'm just … gonna go and sleep. Night, Pet." He briefly pressed his lips to the younger man's forehead before stumbling away, pausing and then grabbing the blanket they had previously been wrapped up in.

Watching as Alfred stumbled slightly, one hand on the wall as he sluggishly made his way to Matthew's bedroom, the Canadian flopped down on the sofa and covered his face, doubling forward and taking a shuddering breath. When he heard the bedroom door click shut, he burst out sobbing, grabbing Kumasomethin' and stuffing the bear into his mouth to stifle the noise; he did not need Alfred to come out and panic about whatever was wrong.

He didn't deserve this. That was the whole problem right now.

He didn't deserve any of this; Alfred's affection, his understanding, his embrace, his reassurances. None of it. Accepting it made him feel sub-par to the human species; why should he take something that had no right to be his in the first place? He had no right - none whatsoever. Fuck, he didn't even deserve to know the man anymore.

It was pathetic. He could wrap his head around any of it. How could Alfred want him, even after all of that? All of it, it was just something he couldn't lay claim to. None of it. Not for what he had done; not for how he had acted. Sure the man was an understanding sort of fellow, and he had been for as long as they had known each other.

Understanding to a fault.

Drawing his knees to his chest as he sat back against the sofa instead of being curled up the way he had been, Matthew took a shuddering breath and swiped at his eyes. How could he have so brazenly asked Alfred to date him? Now it just felt like he had emotionally taken advantage of him. A groan left him and he flopped over onto his side, tugging his hood up over his head as he balled in upon himself and dragged a blanket over his body.

This could be dealt with tomorrow, when he was fully awake and the pills weren't clouding his thoughts with their body-sedating effects.

… But it was what he _wanted. _That was the thought playing at the back of his mind. He had wanted to ask him out that day at the diner. In fact, that was the reason he had followed Alfred into the bathroom. He was going to wait for him to leave the stall or whatever, and ask him out in the most awkward place ever just for the simple fact that it would be funny, and honestly, that was the way their friendship had started out: as the awkwardest, single-most one-sided friendship in the world. So why not start a different part of their relationship in the awkwardest way possible?

Maybe the guilt nagging at him now was just an initial thing, and it would pass. Letting his body sink into the cushions as he blinked slowly, subconsciously nestling into the sofa cushions as his mind began to drift. Things would work themselves out in the end, he decided. If Alfred had been pissed off with him, he would have known it already; for one, they would not have made out the way they did. Not even close.

A tiny smile lighted upon his lips and he sighed. As he had already told himself, he'd worry about it tomorrow. Because tomorrow was a new day or some cliché shit like that. All he knew was that it was in that movie about the little orphan chick with crazy red hair on the go. Yeah, that chick who, by getting adopted went on some

**EPIC, LIFE-ALTERING JOURNEY ®**

because the dude that adopted her was über rich, which meant shit got done.

Everyone likes it when shit gets done.

He was almost asleep - in that stage where the body gets to the point of feeling as though it's made of lead, it's impossible to move but you're still semi-aware of your surroundings and even though you're drooling like a machine you cannot be arsed to wipe it away - when he felt a heavy, warm weight settle in behind him and then, after a moment, he was moved. Eyes slowly opening, he made a muffled, questioning noise, and tried to lift his head. But he couldn't; it felt too heavy. Everything was too heavy for him to entirely care. The room had fallen into a state of pitch darkness and beyond the glass of the window; the evening had already turned to night without his knowledge and had grown cool; damp from the impending rain that seemed to plague the city nightly this time of year. His body was carefully manoeuvred until his spine touched the back of the sofa and he was curled into something damn good and warm.

(And it had built-in cushioning, too. Rather convenient.)

Then he flushed, realizing that something was actually a someone, and that someone was Alfred.

Instead of saying words that would have no meaning, he curled into the man's side and placed his head on his chest, ear over his heart. Al must have been nervous because he could feel it beating rapidly against his ribcage. A steady _thump-thump-thump _that he had never really heard until that moment. Never thought he would want to hear it. Never thought he would get to this point for the simple fact that he could still remember so very clearly, loathing this man. Just never thought it to be possible.

Being wrong and accepting it was not one of his strong points. Even as a little kid, it had pissed him off endlessly.

When Alfred took hold of his hand and he could feel how dry and warm his palm was, compared it to that of his own which was cold, he was thankful for the first time he could possibly remember to have been proven wrong.

* * *

37 reviews last chapter, you guys? Seriously? What? Oh, and haha, I kind of screamed when it got past the 400 review point. What is this I don't even.

SO IN ALL MY EXCITEMENT THIS IS THE CHAPTER I HAVE DECIDED TO GIVE YOU. I was considering putting all this off for one more chapter, and having an Alfred-does-England chapter, but I couldn't. I had to get this done and just sjdngkjdsgnkldg

TWENTY-TWO CHAPTERS LATER AND THEY ARE /FINALLY/ DATING. FINALLY. IF THIS IS NOT PATIENCE I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IS.

Thanks so so so much for all the reviews and faves and watches and idek what else omg u guize u guize I can't even.


	23. Chapter 23

**CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.  
**_I'm sorry to reduce you to this useless, imagistic bullshit.  
_

He wasn't quite surprised by it, but dating Matthew was honestly not much different from just being friends with him. In fact, it was hard to tell they were dating save for the simple fact they were no longer shy about holding hands or wrapping an arm around the other's waist. Staying overnight was beginning to be a regular occurrence for them, or at least it happened more now than what it really used to. Curling up on the sofa happened more frequently, as did making out.

That was probably his favourite part.

Because Matthew was a good kisser.

A _really _good kisser.

Just thinking about it made Alfred F. Jones blush something terrible.

Newspaper spread out before him and a doughnut dangling from his mouth, he stood at the kitchen counter slowly stirring his coffee - not so much reading the Monday morning paper, but just transfixed on watching as the liquid swirled and spiralled steadily from the force of the spoon, the dark black substance moving steadily. Interesting. He dumped some sugar into it, watching as the crystals dissolved the moment they hit the surface of the scalding beverage. Oreo was perched beside him on the counter, face stuck in the box of doughnuts. Alfred ignored the animal. Eating a quality pastry wouldn't do too much harm, right?

When the animal lifted its head out of the box, and came away with white-sugar coated whiskers and licking at its jowls that were painted bright red from a jelly filling, he immediately retracted the thought and sighed, scooping the chubby little cat up and sticking him under one arm before setting her down upon the cold tile flooring of his condo. Seven weeks with Morgan and Peter, and the little beast had put on almost five pounds. It looked like both of them would have to hit the gym. Her bell rang out as she scampered away from the lawyer, bottle brush tail held high in the air as she proceeded to hop up on top of the back of the sofa where she remained perched with a hunched back, staring out at him wide-eyed and licking around her mouth and over her nose.

"Tasty, huh?" he asked the animal with a grin.

Oreo blinked, yellow-green eyes luminescent with the ever-present curiosity possessed by the feline species, before she hopped down from the top of the sofa and onto one of the cushions.

Laughing softly, he removed the pastry from his mouth and set it down on the counter, chewing thoughtfully as he caught up on some local news. Nothing interesting had happened recently, he noted with a light hum of disdain. One would think that living in a big city meant things happened all the time, be them good or bad - preferably the former. Maybe he'd have to go back to reading National Geographic for something interesting now; or maybe he'd have to resort to reading the world news online because, honestly, he didn't care all that much about what was happening in his own niche unless it affected him in a way that was direct or through his line of work.

Folding up the paper and tucking it beneath his arm as he picked up his steaming mug, Alfred sighed and adjusted his belt. Too tight; he needed to get a new one. Despite not liking the extra pounds he had packed on, he had been pleasantly surprised and a little bit humbled when Matthew had shyly admitted to him when they had been playing cards over a few beers that he liked the weight he had put on - said it made him even better to cuddle into, which had in turn caused his face to go fire engine-red and to mutter about how he needed to go and get a new toaster even though the one he had was perfectly fine - but Alfred still wanted to lose most of it. Or, at least a little bit of it. Just because his boyfriend liked it, it didn't mean he was going to keep it.

Speaking of the little cretin, he needed to see if he was awake already. He glanced to the clock over the stove and hummed. It was seven thirty already, and he had work in an hour, and knowing him and his lack of an internal clock he would probably sleep in until well past noon; the lawyer couldn't help but wonder if his laziness was inherent of the Canadian species.

Grabbing his cellphone off of the counter, Alfred dialled Matt's number and then stuck it in between his ear and shoulder, awkwardly sipping from his coffee despite the angle his head was on. Miraculously enough none of it spilt down over his chin.

Five rings later - which meant the Canadian had been asleep still, he noted, scoffing - and the young man answered with something that was not English. At all. Positively bewildered, Alfred pulled the phone away, stared at it as though it were a completely foreign object and then shook his head with a dismissive grin as he put the phone back against his ear.

"Hey," he said softly. "Just making sure you're up for work, considering the fate your alarm clock met last week."

The alarm clock incident is one mishap in particular that is not to be spoken of.

Though Matthew _did_ learn a very valuable lesson about not leaving an opening can of paint on a dresser beside an electronic device that can only function whilst _dry_.

(But the Lamp managed to escape the ordeal fairly unscathed save for a few splatters, praise the Lord.)

Several jumbled curse words left the Canadian's mouth and then Alfred observed the dial tone with a bemused silence. Then he grinned, ending the call and setting the phone down on the counter as he sipped his coffee nonchalantly. Give it time.

Then the phone rang, moving slightly as it vibrated as well. He picked it up after two rings.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly, lips quirking upwards when he heard the soft sigh from the other end.

"_Mmm, morning,_" Mattie mumbled, voice still slurred from sleep. "_Sorry 'bout that._"

"S'okay, Pet," he said. "Like I said, I just wanted to make sure you were awake. Otherwise you'd sleep until noon if nothing was there to wake you up."

The other end was somewhat quiet for a moment, punctuated only by the sound of him rummaging around his room for something. His uniform, probably, and his shoulder bag. Then he yawned. "_That was the original intent until you called and I cussed you out, thus waking me up more._"

Alfred sighed, turning his body to face the counter as he reached for another doughnut, taking a bite and speaking with his mouth still stuffed with pastry. "Shyeah, well, I don't shee what good shleeping in will do you cau-"

"_Don't talk with your mouth full, Princess; it's impolite._"

Falling silent with a spiteful huff, he diligently chewed and swallowed the doughnut before speaking again, this time snapping a little. "Such a mother," he grumbled, rolling his eyes.

"_And you're not?_" he demanded calmly; now he could hear the sound of the shower going in the background. "_You're the one that called me to make sure I was up the same way a mother would. You're just as bad as I am, so don't even try to deny it. Anyway, before you say anything else, I'm getting a shower._" There were more fumbling noises in the bathroom, and he heard a sharp clatter in the background that caused him to wince and pull the mobile away slightly. A soft swear word escaped the younger man on the other line._ "So, are you going to be picking me up today after work? Or should I get the bus back as well? Cause I know you're busy today an-_"

"No worries, I'll come and pick you up," Alfred chirped, sipping his coffee and setting it down, placing a hand on his side as he moved from the kitchen to cross the den. Instead of sitting down, which had been his original intention, he stood there in a daze before going to the window and staring out the expanse of glass that went from one end of his condo straight to the other, floor-to-ceiling. "My business should be cleared up by four-thirty at the latest; if I'm going to be running late, I'll give you a call, okay?"

"_Sure thing_," Matthew said distractedly. There was a brief silence, and then he spoke again. "_Yeah, that sounds good._" Al chuckled lightly. "_Talk to you later, Princess._"

Hanging up the phone with a smile on his face, Alfred slipped it into his back pocket and he turned his elusive attention fully upon the metropolis sprawled out before him.

Watching the city come to life was the only aspect of life in NYC that Jones enjoyed. Watching streets that had been previously dead slowly being filled with life once more was enthralling and oddly comforting in a way. Vehicles pulsing through the side streets; people walking by in groups or solitarily; the daily commute. Vendors would be moving their wares out to the streets in SoHo and Brooklyn, to make their living in the open-air markets. Drunkards would be just staggering home, having stayed long-past last call, bartenders feeling oddly sympathetic for their patrons. The city was like, in essence, a living creature. It needed these people, these enterprises, the endless streams of traffic in order to live and breathe in the same way a body needed a nervous system, circulatory system and a spine. So different, yet one in the same. And he could see it all from the seventh floor, of the building he lived in. It was just like observing a small ecosystem encased in a glass case; He could see all of this happening from above them all - feeling like some sort of superior being.

(_Who knew he could feel like this without the cocaine; this same sort of fascination with the things and living beings down below on the ground from where he stood?_)

Patting the chest pocket of his white dress shirt, he removed a carton of cigarettes and opened the top, bringing it to his mouth and removing a smoke without actually touching it before he replaced it to grab his lighter. His movements were blindly made as his gaze was still locked on what was below in the city. Illuminating it, he took a slow drag and exhaled through his nose. At least he had managed to cut back to smoking a pack every three days, compared to the three packs a day he had managed to get to while in England.

After another drag he exhaled and at last turned from the window, wandering back out to the kitchen to grab his coffee and another doughnut (gym be damned, he loved his Dunkin' Donuts) before he set to making calls for the day. Even though he knew what it was he needed to do, he felt aimless. Ambling through his kitchen, sitting down on a stool and picking up the paper before setting it back down and standing once more with his mug of coffee in one hand and his cigarette in the other. He went from the kitchen back to the living room, perching on the arm chair. His foot tapped steadily; almost as though he was impatient, but awaiting what he did not know. And again he got up, drinking his now-cooled coffee instead of merely tasting it and wetting his lips. He took a drag, exhaled slowly, drank his coffee. Rinse, wash, repeat.

Repeating this process a few times until he felt calm again, until he no longer felt the need to sit on every surface of his apartment within his line of vision, Al just gave a grumble of frustration and headed towards his office, the Cat tagging alone closely at his heels, mewling sweetly and jumping at the back of his calf. Little pinpricks for claws dug into the back of his leg as the animal tried to attach herself to the moving limb and he laughed. Sticking his cigarette in his mouth and swooping down to grasp the animal and hoist her up to settle on his shoulder so he could hold his smoke once more, he grinned brightly at the startled look that flitted across her delicate features. Words his mother said to him once came back to him, '_animals are, by far, more expressive and emotional than most humans_'. And as he looked at and studied the kitten perched calmly on his shoulder, gazing about with a sort of regality, that much was obvious. Then, with a sharp turn of her tiny head, Oreo started to lick at his ear as he made to shut the door behind him partially. Her tongue was warm and wet; sand papery. He squirmed a little and chuckled, tipping his head to the side as he cautiously sat down in the chair while trying his best not to jar the kitten on his shoulder. Despite his best efforts to dissuade her, she just inched forward, balanced precariously upon him and remained steadfast in her efforts at cleaning her human's ear.

Setting the cigarette down in a crystal ashtray and shoving it in towards the interior of the desk, he scooped Oreo off of his shoulder and set her down on his lap, smiling as the animal instantly began to knead at his thighs before turning around several times and curling up there, paws stretched out where his legs were pressed together.

He shook his head as he booted up his desktop computer (his laptop was in for repairs thanks to a certain kitten peeing on it), edging his chair in closer to the desk without disturbing the feline taking up his lap. He drained back the rest of his coffee which was closer to cold than anything and it left a mucky taste in his mouth, set the empty mug down; he picked up his cigarette and took one last drag from it before grinding down the butt into nothing. Whips of smoke rose up from it, curling and twisting gently before fading into absolutely nothing at all.

Going straight to a Microsoft word file - he had no need to check his stocks, considering he had sold them off for a little less than what they were really worth, because upon taking a good look at the way the economy was constantly dipping and rising, he didn't want to risk losing everything - he brought it up onto his screen. It was filled with different legislations and phone numbers; contact people, really.

Picking up his cellphone, he inched closer to the screen for a moment before pulling back and punching the number in. Three rings later, and a man with a deep, gruff voice picked up. "Hello, Chief Everson? This is Alfred Jones."

"_Mr. Jones! How have you been? I heard you took a leave of absence. Health reasons, was it?_"

Alfred flushed and shifted awkwardly in his chair thankful for the fact that it was a phone conversation, Oreo not even budging at the movement. He leant back and stared up at the ceiling, blindly picking his pen up and rummaging through a drawer for a pad of paper. "Yeah, I don't know if it was stress or what, but I got really sick around the end of April," he lied smoothly to the chief of the NYPD. "So I'm out of the court room until further notice; that's why Chris is in for me."

"_He's doing pretty good for himself,_" commented Everson lightly. "_But his conviction rate isn't near yours, nor is his public speaking ability. Either he needs a lot of practice or you must be a natural loud mouth, Jones._"

Laughing outright, the American couldn't help but grin. "Yeah, well, it happens. What Chris needs is a little more experience, though; that's why I recommended him to State. I'm surprised they listened. But I figured if he wants to run for DA for Brooklyn come the next local election, then he's going need the experience. Brooklyn has a higher rate of crime than we got here in and around Manhattan; thanks to the Lower Manhattan Security Initative, I mean, the rates here have dropped yet again and we're at a record low (frankly it's a wonder I'm not out of a job yet). So, why not start him off in an area that's a little easier to handle, per se, to give him a taste of the duties before he makes up his mind on whether or not to go for DA status in a few years time? I mean, shootings are a regular occurance in Brooklyn, when compared to here we have a few more robberies than them. Robberies are a little easier on the nerves in the court room than having to deal with sobbing family members and a major, full-blown court process instead of a few hearings and a slap on the wrist and a few years in Cell Block A."

Everson agreed with a light chuckle. "_We must be doing something good for the rates to have been so low the past year or so._"

"You got that right," Alfred replied with a sigh. "Now, I was wondering: is Constable Zwingli off duty this Thursday?"

There was a rustling of papers in the background and Alfred tucked the phone in between his chin, glancing at the computer screen for a moment and then picking his pen and paper up, scribbling down something illegible before the Chief got back to him. "_Yes he is. What do you need him for_?"

"I want him to give the newer officers a good training session on gun use and most of the major technicalities," instructed the DA. "He's been the top shooter on the force since he was hired six years back, and honestly, he might be fairly young and all but I trust him to give a good and thorough lesson. Sort of like a refresher for the younger fellows - so that they know what they can and can't do in this district. Give him my number and get him to call me, alright?"

"_Will do, Mr. Jones. Is there anything else you need?_" Everson inquired.

He paused for a moment. "Well, maybe just a little insight on something, really. I've been working on some programs for younger students. Like, against drug abuse and whatnot. Cause, y'know, you help keep kids away from drugs and they're less likely to turn to crime. The last program they had, the one in place before I got voted in as DA, was ineffective to a certain degree, but I'm currently knocking heads with my, ah, friend Matthew about possibilites for the program. One thing he suggested was getting in former addicts to talk to them."

"_That actually sounds like a pretty good idea,_" the man commented slowly. "_Something like that could work; almost a sort of shock factor to it. Would they be geared towards middle school or high school?_"

"I'm thinking middle school. Or maybe both," Alfred said. "But like I said, I'm talking it all over with him about what I might get done. Get an addictions counciller to go and do the presentations and have former addicts go in and tell them, 'hey, this is why you don't do drugs'."

"_Alright, well you work on that with your friend and then get back to me,_" Everson said. "_Because I have all the different numbers of people you'll need to talk to for that sort of thing._"

Alfred didn't tell him how he wouldn't need the numbers, but instead stated his thanks for the help and hung up the phone a moment later, scribbling down the details of the coversation. He pulled the slip of paper from the pad and grabbed a piece of tape to attach it to the top ledge on his desk.

Picking up his other notebook - the one he had made up a list in the night before while he had been on the phone with Matthew, who had been in the process of cleaning - he glanced to see who was next to be called on his list of people that he needed to call.

Chris was next. Ugh. Of _course _it would be that fuckwit. He glanced to the clock and hummed. It was nearing eight-thirty. The man would probably be just after getting to the court house; the first hearing for the day wouldn't get started until a little bit after nine, which meant he would be alone in his office trying to get his shit together before presenting it to a judge, the accused and defending lawyer. He had plenty of time to get ahold of him - because, if Chris had been smart, he would have done it the night before.

Dialling his number from simply memory, he sat back once more and gently ran his fingers down along Oreo's spine, a smile tweaking at his mouth when the cat started to purr gently. A moment later and Chris answered the phone.

"Hey, Fuckface, how's it going?"

"_Alfred. Just who I wanted to talk to at eight thirty in the morning,_" he commented in a flat voice. "_What do you want?_"

Scoffing, he shook his head. "What, I can't call you and ask how you're making out with the cases?"

There was a brief grumble and curse, and then Chris just huffed. "_I'd say no, but considering you're the reason I can do this right now, I'll just humour you. Yes, Alfred, it's simply wonderful and everything is going splendidly._"

"Well that's a riveting tale, chap," he chirped. "I just wanted to let you know that I'm going to be taking care of most of the work again, but you're going to keep covering for me with the hearings and trials, alright? And if you need any assistance in putting together evidence to take a hearing to a trial stage, then I'll gladly help you out with it."

"_O-Oh. Well, thanks._" Silence hung between them and as Alfred petted the kitten curled in his lap, he couldn't help but smile a little. "_How have you been, though? Are you sure you're feeling well enough to take on a work load again?_"

"For the most part," Alfred sighed, tossing the pen down. "I'm still feeling pretty shitty, but I'm functionable now. Being idle is driving me batty, so I need something to do."

"_Did you leave for the reason I think you might have left?_"

The question caught Alfred off-guard and he hesitated, mouth open and saying nothing. That was the thing about Chris that made him a damn good lawyer: he was intuitive, even if the guy was in the other side of the phone. If he knew something about you, there was a good chance he would use it either for your benefit or against it. "Humour me: what do _you_ think the reason is?"

"_I'm currently at the courthouse, so I don't really want to say outloud in case the wrong person overhears,_" said Chris and Alfred was also pleased by just how tactful he was in those sorts of situations. "_But I'm thinking' you were a good boy and stopped doing that bad thing you shouldn't have been?_"

Good guess on his behalf. "I haven't done any coke in the past ten weeks now," he said with a sigh. "Matthew's pretty much the main reason, and so, yeah. It … it was fucking hell at first. And I still feel awful nearly all the time and all I do is sleep, but … but he makes it worth it."

"_So, I take it you guys are finally dating?_" Chris said with a snort. Before Alfred had a chance to reply, he started talking again. "_Watching you two dance around each other was fucking hilarious, I'll give it that much. But Jesus Christ, it fucking took you morons long enough to realize anything. He's good for you, man. Even Vanessa thinks he's gonna do some good for you. So, as much as it kills me to say something like this, I'm happy for you._"

Alfred flushed and made a slightly startled noise. "Th-thanks, man. I … hah. Yeah."

Chris more or less cackled at the American's obvious embarrassment and then sighed. "_Just let me know when you're good to take over again here at the courthouse,_" he said. "_I … it never really occurred to me just how stressful this job is. I feel the slightest bit of respect for you being able to handle all of this shit without going completely crazy._"

"And _you_ want to be DA for Brooklyn? Enjoy Manhattan while you got it, bro," Al chuckled before hanging up.

Two calls down - he skimmed through the names on his list: the State DA, he had to place a call to Boston about the transfer of several police officers from one state to another to name a few - and there was only ten more to make. He sighed heavily and ran his hand down over his face. Being away for so long had caused so many things to pile back up, and when he had been talking to the State DA, he had told him that he was going to take back the majority of his duties; he just wouldn't be able to go back into the actual court system right away. At least not for another two or three months, when everything was properly settled on his end of the spectrum. The man had been alright with that, told him to take it easy and just work from home and stop into his office every now and again to get paperwork from Audrey. All he would really do was help with some new legislation they were trying to work out, do some planning on how to improve the Lower Manhattan circuit system, and to try and figure out some good places in the Upper East Side to put the cameras at as well. He'd sit in on some city council meetings; he'd make the usual calls to the police department; he'd work on programs for law enforcement and programs to help the law enforcers to do their job better. And he would somehow manage all that while he tried to get his body to adjust to a cocaine-less existence.

He sighed, put down the phone. But at least now he wouldn't have to worry about finding the time to go and see his therapist, and it also gave him time to sleep and go to the gym like he wanted to.

A heavy pounding on his front door caused him to stop in the process of calling one of the city councillors, a frown crossing his expression. Was he supposed to be expecting someone? Grabbing the planner beside his fax machine, he opened it up, skimmed down through the contents for the day and frowned. No one; his meeting with Judge Adams wasn't until tomorrow. A grimace crossed his face; that man could talk for hours without taking a break, bless his crooked little heart. He sat there for a moment, set down the planner as he set his phone atop the little black portfolio and looked out into the main room as though his answer lay out there. The knocking resumed, heavier than before. An odd, discomforting sense of forboding filled him and Alfred pulled open the drawer of his desk. A curse escaping him. His gun was upstairs.

The knocking resumed, this time steadier and angrier than the first two sets.

Someone was really pissed off and they were taking it out on his poor, unsuspecting front door.

It was not something he liked very much, and a sort of stomach-sick feeling filled him and he was left ill, sitting there in the chair and debating whether or not to ignore the knocking altogether and just put on some music, turn it up on bust and just browse the internet while he waited for the person to go away. The idea seemed like a good one until he couldn't locate his iPod or the speakers for his laptop. Groaning, he slumped in his chair.

_Knock knock knock knock._

He told himself to remain firm; to remain resolute. If it was Matthew, the young man would have called. If it was Arthur, he would have just walked in and if the door was locked, which it was, he would have called after being ignored first time around. If it was Hugh, the doorman that had kept his lover a quarter sane the time he was gone (which he had thanked him profusely for, until the older man's ears turned bright pink and he told him, in that gruffly accented voice, to shut the fuck up and go get a drink out of it), Hugh would have used the buzzer located downstairs in the security office.

But once the knocking persisted again, Alfred said fuck it and stood, setting Oreo down on the floor and shutting the door to his office before she could get out behind him. He heard a soft mewl of protest come from the other side of the wood, but he ignored it despite the way his heart twisted unhappily. While he was loathe of locking the little animal up in a room, he was better off keeping her where she would be safe just in case the shit was about to hit the fan, right?

He was hoping he was just being paranoid, and that it was someone from one of the lower levels in the building (considering he had the whole floor to himself) that just needed some sugar or laundry detergent _really _badly. Like, this-is-a-dirty-clothing-crisis urgent and if I don't get my favourite sweater cleaned before I have to go to that meeting, everyone and their dead pet hamster(s) is going to know it.

He did have to admit to it, though; a lot of the time he felt paranoid - Matthew had jokingly commented he was having a one-person Cold War based on just how bad he had gotten - but this didn't feel like it was paranoia alone; this felt like an honest-to-God reason to worry.

_Knock knock knock __**knock**__._

Okay, so maybe his neighbour was just _really pissed off _about not having any laundry detergent.

As he wiped the cold sweat from his palms onto the back pockets of his pants, grimacing at the feeling, he took a slow breath and ran his fingers through his hair, adjusting the collar of his shirt before licking at his lips; they were dry and rubbery. He felt anxious. This wasn't right; he was Alfred Fucking (Franklin) Jones - he didn't get anxious over trivial shit like this - not when he was the goddamn boss and he could do essentially anything he wanted. No one fucked with his shit because that meant they were fucking with American Justice (see: corrupt and falling apart) System and he would kick their ass black, blue and all the way to the courtroom. Alright, now, go get 'em tiger and don't let the door hit that fucker on the way out.

Best pep-talk _ever_.

When he opened the door and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, he realized that no, this was not one of his resident condo-dwellers looking for something for their dirty clothes or for their morning spot of tea or cup of coffee and he was damn good and happy that he had used the bathroom only a little while ago, otherwise he would have just wet himself.

And there was a very calm man stood at the other end of the gun; he had long, white-blonde hair, a white-washed and terrifyingly stoic face and blue eyes that were so pale they were nearly white in colour. He smirked dangerously, and that was when Alfred noticed his other companion - a small, platinum-haired young man that looked somewhat familiar but with a name he could not place.

"Alfred Jones, what's on the go?" the shorter of the two sneered, the one that looked familiar to him. Unceremoniously shouldering his way past the lawyer and into the condo, he sauntered in as though he owned the place, looking around before standing there in the center of the cool-aired, dimly lit apartment. He gave a low whistle and scuffed his work boot on the floor that Alfred had spent several hours scrubbing quite meticulously, before he finally turned back to him and resorted to watching the flabbergasted American that stood there. Alfred had paled considerably and was now looking sick to his stomach and in a state of near-shock. His smirk broadened and he rocked a little on his heels. Yeah, this guy was familiar.

"So, you gonna come in, pretty boy? S'your place, after all." As though he damn well knew he wasn't going to get an answer - or at least a coherent one - he wandered back over and grabbed him by the elbow, ushering him back into his own apartment. His grip was tight; painful. If he had been a frail person, his elbow would have been bruised, if not lightly fractured. "Hey, Dad, lock the door, wouldja?"

Oh, great, so it was his daddy that had tagged along for the ride. Fucking precious. Although it did explain for quite a bit: neurological aberrations must have been prominent in their family. Maybe it was the result of inbreeding or something like that.

You could never tell these days.

Blinking sluggishly, Alfred just watched over his shoulder as the man - a man that was at least a whole head taller than himself and with the build of an All-Star Quarterback - locked the door, his only escape. His heart sunk to where his stomach was supposed to be, while his gut was suddenly up in his throat from nausea. Should the worst come to pass, he was trapped. Seven stories up, and locked in his apartment with two, gun-toting psychos. A tragic ending to a mildly humorous existence - his father always called him a joke for a reason. He was good and trapped there unless he threw himself out a window. Or crawled through the ventilation ducts. Neither of them came across as very good options for his potential fleeing of the scene. Because first and foremost, he didn't want to get his clothing dirty; this was his good shirt, after all. And second, he wouldn't make an overly attractive splatter of guts and brains and intestines and other bloody matter all over the concrete.

Matthew might be a little pissed off with him, too.

Then, looking up to the man that had forced him down into an arm chair, he felt a sort of anger and humiliation flare up in his chest in place of the fear. What had gone from a potentially high-risk situation - this wasn't the first time he had been held at gunpoint, nor would it be the last given his line of work (within the first month he had received six death threats alone) - had spiralled into the ultimate sense of personal abasement.

He knew who this bastard was.

This was Matthew's friend; Matthew Williams' goddamn pissy and overprotective ex-boyfriend.

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?" Alfred snarled viciously; something in him had apparently - _finally -_ snapped. "Get the fuck out before I call the police on your sorry fucking excuse of an ass or before I beat the shit out of it _myself_."

He heard a sharp click and then suddenly cold metal was pressed to his temple. The colour drained from his face and he broke out into a cold sweat, swallowing steadily lest he vomit because he could feel it rising steadily and burning his oesophagus on the way up. Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fucking shit and shitting fuck. That was not the right thing for him to have said. Couldn't he have been maybe even just a little bit politer about it? Maybe he should have said please or something. Actually, he shouldn't have said anything at all. Should have just kept his mouth closed and said nothing at all. That would have been wise.

But did he do that? No. Not at all. And now he had a gun pressed to the side of his head, in his own fucking apartment. Because he was a genius. Of course. Smooth move, Jones. Piss off the asshole holding the gun when the only thing you got is a gun nowhere near you. Smooth fucking move.

This was _not_ a good way to start off the week.

"It vould do you much good," the man holding the gun hissed, somehow remaining perfectly devoid of any sort of emotion like an android or a well-trained attack dog but he was thinking the former, "to refrain from spreaking to my son in that manner. It vill get wery ugly wery fast."

"Duly noted," said Alfred flatly, glaring from the corner of his eye, eyebrows knit together with frustration. Turning his eyes to settle back upon Gilbert, who was crouched before him with a leer on his face, he glared. "The fuck do you want?"

Gilbert sneered openly at him before settling back on his haunches, looking up at him with a coldly bemused expression. "Oh, I just want to have a little heart-to-heart with you."

"_A little_-" Alfred choked off and shook his head, batting the gun away with a snarl. Mr. Beilschmidt glared daggers at him; the American ignored the murderous look with a practiced ease. "Listen, if you wanted to have a 'little talk' with me, did you need to drag Daddy along with you because you're too much of a pussy to talk to me on your own?"

"No," Gilbert said smoothly. "I just wanted to make sure you're going to listen to me."

"Really now?" he snapped angrily. "You think I'm going to listen to a punk-ass bastard like _you_?" He gave a single bark of a sardonic sort of laughter before his expression grew to be thunderous; Gilbert edged back just the slightest, cocking his head as though considering it. "You must be fucked in the head to think that I'm going to give you the time of day."

Gilbert's smile suddenly grew wide; manic; like someone on the best trip of their life and they were going to give everyone else hell just because they could blame in on the drugs later on.

The gun was back against his temple and Mr. Beilschmidt was just as indifferent as before; he could feel beads of sweat sliding down along his skin and dampening the nape of his neck, the collar of his shirt and his back. Just breathe. Trying. He was trying but his lungs had suddenly stopped working. Too many cigarettes or too much stress at one time? No matter, no matter at all. Come on, Jones. Breathe. He couldn't even do that now - panic was setting in.

"C-Consider me all ears," Alfred said in a voice that was a pitch higher than it normally was with a winning smile attached, counting back from a hundred in his head and considering the best way of murdering the two men without getting neither a bullet in his skull nor blood on the tiles. To think, that was his most pressing dilemma for the day. Such horrible things he had to deal with, really.

"Alright, so, let me get this straight - you're dating Matthew, right?" he asked, leaning back a little as though preparing to make himself comfortable. "Matthew Williams?"

Not liking where the mock interrogation was going, Alfred cautiously settled back in the arm chair, sparing Mr. Beilschmidt a glance from the corner of his eye. The gun had been lowered considerably, but the safety hadn't been put back on and the elder man held it too easily for his comfort. Maybe he was one of those men that were born with a gun in one hand and a riot shield in the other.

"Yes, I am," he said icily. "What's your damage?"

"I don't like you," Gilbert said simply. "That's the problem."

"Don't you now? My, I don't quite understand what I did to warrant such an emotion." Arching an eyebrow Al smirked, resting his ankle upon his knee and his other knee on the arm of the chair. "Quite the unfortunate predicament you have there, eh, Beilschmidt?"

Gilbert's eyes narrowed a fraction before his expression returned to one of an arctic mirth. "Indeed," he said. "Now, while there's nothing I can do about all this - and frankly, I ain't gonna do shit for the simple fact that this is the happiest I've seen Matt in fuckin' ages, man. So, while I don't like you for just plain _existing, _you don't have to worry about me jeopardizin' your relationship thingy."

Shoulders visibly slumping with relief, Alfred all but sunk back into the soft material of his seat with a low sigh. Why the hell had Matthew refrained from telling him this once, crucial if not remotely minor detail: that not only did he have an ex-boyfriend, but he just so happened to have a _psycho, strangely possessive with a megalomaniac/pseudo-Rambo for a father _ex-boyfriend.

It was as Matthew usually said: shit happens.

"But, I'm not afraid of jeopardizin' that pretty bitch face of yours."

And Alfred didn't know if he should cry or laugh, because honestly, without his face he would more than likely be fucked when it came to the media and those ridiculous press releases he had to contend with on a regular basis. He knew of lawyers that looked a little less than good - they weren't clean shaven on a regular, every-morning basis, they looked like a mine field had lain waste to their faces, and even his lover didn't look nearly as awful when he had gone let's say two weeks without sleeping right. He knew those men (and even a few women) were talked about behind their backs; he had engaged in it himself a few times - mainly with Arthur, though.

(Sure, Matthew told him once that he had an amazing personality but, really. This was the twenty-first century. Other than his boyfriend, who really gave a fuck about what lay beneath the surface?)

"You. Wouldn't. _Dare._"

A toothy leer was sent his way and Alfred wanted to smash his face in with the fire extinguisher stowed some seven feet away. "_Watch_ me."

Despite the threat of imminent violence that dangled between the two men, neither of them made a move or breathed another word. Simply glowered as though looks alone would be enough to bring up murder charges.

"_Mein Gott,_" the elder man huffed angrily, glancing back and forth between the two men that were locked in some vicious, silent exchange. He rolled sickly pale eyes before walking around Alfred to stand in front of him and, effectively, block Gilbert from his view. Immediately Al leant back and glanced up meekly at him - _fuck_ this guy was intimidating. "I don't even know vhy I vent along vith this harebrained scheme oft yours, Gilbert. You're simply pussy-footing around the problem. You know vhat? I'm going to do this _my_ vay."

Not quite what he wanted to hear, and from the look on Gilbert's face when the tall man moved away with the slightest limp, it wasn't quite what he wanted to hear, either.

Dragging a stool over from the kitchen to sit down upon, Mr. Beilschmidt dropped his backside down on it with little to no grace and the lawyer cringed as the metal whined beneath his superior weight. "So, I vant you to listen to me wery good, _ja_," he said slowly. It was as though he was speaking to a small child: one too dumb to understand even the simplest mechanics of a proper conversation. "You are dating Matthew Villiams, und frankly I do not like you. You are an arrogant, pig-headed bastard. You are selfish - that alone ve can see vhen you talk to the news crews. Und I do not like that. The boy deserves somevun vith class; vith intelligence - somevun that ist his intellectual match in more ways than vun. Not some excuse oft a brat such as yourself."

Alfred nodded with a nonchalant rise and fall of his right shoulder; he feigned disinterest but he could feel his stomach rolling because the words were affecting him a lot more than what he wanted them to. Was he getting soft in more places than just his stomach?

"But, it is as Gilbert said; you make the boy wery happy. I have not seen him this happy in a long vhile." His expression had softened minutely as he spoke, and that was when the American saw the gun had been holstered. His eyes widened; _the fucking pistol was in plain view_. There was no attempt at subtly and not even the slightest effort at concealing the weapon. How the hell had they gotten in without being nailed by the building's security? What were they, magical? "Now, I have one vord oft advice for you. Are you listening?"

"Yes, yes," Alfred said with a sigh and a flick of his wrist. He sighed and massaged at his temple; stress levels were rocketing already.

Beilschmidt was smiling when he spoke again:

"You lay so much as vun finger on him, und I vill break your neck."

He never cared much for threats like that; Alfred knew he was agile enough, and had more than enough upper-body strength to keep a physical attacker at bay until he could get his hands on something that would allow him to cause a little more damage than a few well-aimed punches. Most of the time, threats like this were made empty. But he was serious - it was in the way his hands flexed at his thighs; the way his face had finally contorted into a grimace of anger after having abandoned its otherwise stoic façade; broad shoulders were taut.

That was when he knew that this man was serious, and that was when he suddenly felt pure outrage, absolute fury, at what he was suggesting (along with a slight side of knowing he was fucked).

"How _dare _you," Alfred snarled, rising to his feet and no longer caring about the height difference between them, the gun on his hip or the fact that this brute of a human could lay him out without breaking a sweat. Mr. Beilschmidt quirked a brow but did not move otherwise. Gilbert, on the other hand, came to stand as well, his expression darkening. "How dare you even assume that I would do something like that to him? You have some fuckin' amount of gall to make a threat and accusation like that."

Being grabbed by the throat was the last thing Alfred expected to have to deal with that day - some violent cravings, maybe, because he had been getting antsy over the past hour, but most definitely not. Getting throttled wasn't really on his 'to-do' list for the day.

But he was grabbed all the same and a shrill gasp left him as the fingers found purchase on his skin and latched on, refusing to relinquish their vice-like grip.

"Ist that so?" he leered, grinning rakishly and as though he were delighting in the reddish hue Alfred's cheeks were beginning to take on. Sharp, ragged inhales filled the room. "Vell, I hate to burst your little bubble, Jones, but I don't care if you think that I have gall. I vill have as much oft it as I vant. You hurt that boy, und I will break you in vays you cannot imagine."

Clawing at the hand that was beginning to tighten on his throat, Alfred made a panicked, squawking noise of desperation. The hand tightened that much more, and suddenly there were dots dancing in his vision. His airway was being cut off, and this man knew exactly what part of his throat he needed to go for to get the desired effect. He inhaled sharply, hopelessly, feeling his legs beginning to weaken. Beilschmidt was talking, but all he heard was white noise in his ears and everything felt like it was rushing past him as it all started to warp into tunnel vision and he realized with a giddy horror that he was on the verge of passing out from the obstruction of his breathing.

And then he was dropped to the floor, legs giving out and oxygen rushing back into his lungs and making its way hastily back to his brain; his vision was black and he groped blindly, legs useless as he tried to steady himself. He still couldn't breathe evenly, nor could he see, but this much he could work with.

"Jesus _Christ_, Dad!" he heard Gilbert croak out. There was still a rush of static filling his ears, but most words were discernible. "I asked you to come here and make sure he _listened_ to me. Y'know, like some sort of fuckin' Megatron bitch and be all badass and just stand by a glare and wave your gun like you usually do. I didn't ask you to fucking _strangle_ the poor asshole!"

There was an apologetic mumble from the bulky man that had tried to break his throat, and a small smirk crossed Alfred's lips before he retched with a hacking cough. He clamped his hand down over his mouth as he coughed steadily, doing his best to avoid vomiting. As his head stopped swirling and his vision finally returned to him, he collapsed against the chair. Sitting on the floor felt like the wisest decision as his legs were still to rubbery to use for support. He looked up at Beilschmidt and blinked sluggishly before looking around as though he were trying to relocate himself once and for all.

"Now, Mr. Jones," the man murmured cautiously, crouching down before him. Alfred simply regarded him with an impassive expression, swallowing with a grimace; there was a ring of bruises already forming on his skin. "Do I have your vord that you vill not do anything to that young man that no upstanding citizen such as yourself vould do?"

"O-Of course I wouldn't," he choked out. It was a struggle to stay sat upright. His voice cracked and his eyes fluttered shut as he let his head rest against the seat of the chair. "Why wo… would I hurt him?" He thought about the way the marriage between his parents had turned; how it had gone sour and within the last three months before his mother filed for divorce, how it had turned into something a little more domestic than just sour. Pain settled in his chest. "I could never do something like that to him. H-He means too much to me for that sort of degradation, from anyone." Then his expression darkened, turning thunderous. "And if I ever heard of someone doing that to him, I'd kill them myself."

Beilschmidt and Gilbert exchanged an odd look. Then the older man straightened up with a grunt and some low-spoken German before shaking his head and casting a wry smile in Al's direction. The younger man replied in an equally fluent Germanic tongue before he cackled, pale eyes glinting wickedly as he gave the lawyer a lewd smirk of sorts.

"Do you think he sounds sincere enough?" Mr. Beilschmidt inquired plaintively, nudging Alfred's shin with the toe of his shoe.

Gilbert was silent for a moment, expression cold and calculating. Then he smirked in a way that was almost hateful, but not quite. Just almost. "I think he does," he murmured. He nodded and then looked to his father. "While I didn't quite ask you to strangle him, I do think we managed to get the job done."

His father grunted in agreement before turning on his heel, heavy footsteps leading away from the still-seething, still-aching American.

Just where the hell did they think they were going? He'd have to be absolutely addled to let them just waltz on out of his apartment without any sort of explanation; no one barged into his apartment, held him at gun point and tried to choke him out and then, in the end, wander out of the place as though absolutely nothing had happened.

"Oh, oh fuck no," Alfred hissed in a craggy voice, jerking forward and grabbing the back of Beilschmidt's pants and giving a good tug on them to grab his attention. He was breathing heavily; angrily. "Don't you dare walk away from me like that without giving any sort of explanation about what all that was about."

Mr. Beilschmidt looked calmly down at the American. "I do not vish to see him in a repeat situation of vhat his step-father did to him," he said quietly. Gilbert, he noted, had already made his way to the door but paused upon hearing the words, a pale hand freezing on the doorknob. His hand clenched around the brass tightly for a brief moment before he stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door behind him slightly ajar. "I did not think that there vould be a problem vith you, but I vanted to make sure, _ja_?"

Alfred, not quite knowing what to make of this nor did he entirely want to make anything of it because it all sat so heavily on his shoulders and chest all of a sudden, just nodded and looked away. A sour taste was in his mouth. The edges of his vision still felt funny, blurry and smudged likes the edges of a dampened piece of paper. He stared at the floor, a vacant look in his eyes and then he massaged his throat. Flesh tender beneath his fingertips, he grimaced and then gnawed on his lower lip. Sitting there and licking his wounds wasn't going to get anything done, he decided stonily.

So he turned his gaze back to the man looming over him, glowering dangerously as he steeled himself. "Get the fuck out of my apartment before I call the police and have you charged with possession of a weapon dangerous to the public and assault causing minor bodily harm."

The request was not a hard one to follow, for Beilschmidt merely grinned and gave a mock salute before heading over to the door, disappearing through the frame before the door slammed shut behind the two men.

Sliding down with a spinal column made of liquid, Al lay on the floor and stared up at the white, cathedral-esque ceiling. His head twisted and turned in upon itself. Trying to clear his mind, he decided to focus on the most inconsequential thing he could. The ceiling was painted white, and there was dust on the chandelier. Delicately spun cobwebs dangled from the stainless steel and crystal light fixture, and of all the things in his life right now, that was bothering him the most. There were fucking cobwebs on his goddamn chandelier and he couldn't clean it because he didn't own a ladder to reach it.

Was it too much trouble to want to clean his goddamn chandelier?

His cell phone vibrated somewhere in the apartment, the sound of metal sliding across wood echoing loudly in the silent abode. The phone could go and answer itself for all he really cared.

And it wasn't even ten o'clock on a Monday morning.

Hopefully it wasn't some sort of omen that was indicating that the whole week was going to go downhill.

Some three hours later saw him back in his office with only half of his planned work load completed. This was not what he had wanted to happen to him; each time he thought he was getting close to the clearing in the woods, he found himself drowning once more in a forest of sorts that seemed to have no end. It was feeling like England all over again, but this time he had Oreo curled up on his lap and he and Mattie had patched their relationship up and had pushed it further. What had not changed was the fact that he was already half-way through a brand new pack of cigarettes and smelling like the bottom of an ash tray left overnight at a pub for sailors in Ireland.

Turns out it _was_ an omen; he was craving cocaine again, and this was the worst he had felt it in a while.

Plain and simple, his body was screaming for the drug. The past week had gone by without a single incident and now, here he was, sprawled off at his desk, smoking cigarette after fucking cigarette and waiting for the bombs to start falling. One full week of nothing - he had energy, motivation, and he felt alive - and now this shit was happening all over again.

Sure, his therapist had warned him. '_Over the next three or four months, you're going to be dealing with intermittent cravings for the drug. What matters the most is that you find the motivation to keep yourself from going back to it, or relying on something else to beat the craving and the side-effects that are attached to it._'

Sure it was shit he already knew, but it was reassuring in a way to hear something similar to what his shrink in England had told him. As well, this doctor didn't want to prescribe him to anything; said he was a high-risk case, as with any individual going through a cold turkey detoxification and he couldn't justify prescribing him medication for anxiety or depression, should he be affected by it again (an extensive look into his medical records showed that his past medications were still listed there). The man didn't want to risk the DA becoming addicted to those medications in place of the drug.

But he had his motivation to keep off of the drugs; he had his motivation and he wasn't going to risk losing Matthew all over again.

Even if it meant he had to spend until Christmas feeling like he was tied onto the tail end of a tractor trailer and was being dragged through Death Valley, he would do it and all of it just for him - and a little bit for himself, too, because he had wanted to ditch the coke anyway. He just needed that one final kick to the ass to go ahead with it.

Eyelids heavy, his neck still aching from the assault, and the ends of smouldering cigarettes gradually piling up beside him, the American did nothing more than sit there and brood. Kitten curled on his stomach as his spine curved almost painfully from the way he had flopped down with his feet up on the surface and one hand on his forehead and the other dangling limply over the arm of his chair. Motivation having long since left him, he was sat there uselessly, twiddling his fingers as he smoked steadily and sipped on another cup of coffee.

The worst part of all this was the lethargy, really. He could handle the depression and the occasional urge to go and down a container of extra strength pain killers and take a pile of sedatives.

But feeling listless? Lying around and wanting to do nothing more than sleep and eat? This wasn't him; with or without the drug, he had never been like this before. Even when he had been depressed in his late teens, he still felt the need to go and get things done. He went bike riding, swimming, played football and basketball. There had never been any real malaise to his depression when he was younger but now, it was as though he had lost ninety percent of his will to live and what remained was slowly diminishing when he considered his levels of willingness to set back about doing the things he really needed to do.

That was the real killer of it.

With the energy reserved for someone just after coming out of a coma, Alfred edged the chair over towards the desk the best he possibly could and groped along the smooth, cold surface for his phone. Smooth metal met his fingertips and he grunted, jerking the chair over a little bit further so he could actually pick it up off of the desk.

He glanced to the time - almost one thirty in the afternoon - and hummed. Matthew would be on his hour lunch, which meant it was safe to call him; no crazy bosses to bitch at him for taking personal calls on work time. No one could tell him he didn't do something right.

Blindly punching his number in and pressing the green call button, Alfred exhaled heavily and finally lifted his previously dead arm to rest on the side of his office chair, lightly scratching behind Oreo's ear. The animal began to purr instantly, and a smile finally tugged his lips in a direction other than down.

"_Hello_?"

"Hey," Alfred said quietly, voice slightly hoarse. He cleared his throat and then sighed. Before he even had a chance to say anything, Matthew had immediately cut in.

"_Everything alright, Princess?_" he inquired lowly.

"N-No, not really," he muttered, just wondering how the hell everyone around him managed to remain to intune to everything when his senses felt deadened. "I … yeah. Shit. I feel like shit. It hit me a few hours ago."

There was the sound of metal scraping on tile flooring, and there was silence on the other line. When Matthew spoke again, his voice had a bit of a tinny sound to it; he had probably gone into the bathroom or something to talk to him, probably worried that someone would overhear them. Paranoid sonofabitch. "_Well, I'm on my lunch break as it is, so if you want to vent, then go right ahead,_" he offered patiently. "_I'll gladly listen._"

"I know you will, I know." Why had he even called Matthew in the first place? That was the thought going through his head now; almost treasonous in a way. He didn't quite like it, but it was true: why had he pulled him away from his dinner just to listen to his various self-inflicted problems? "Maybe I'll just … sleep it off. Like I usually do, instead of smoking too much or eating more than what I have in my fridge."

A soft chuckle came from the other end and Al smiled lightly. "_Are you sure?_" Mattie asked lightly, pressing forward gently to try and get the older man to talk. "_It might be a bit better to talk, right?"_

"Yeah, you probably are right," he replied with a yawn. It was as if he needed to call the Canadian to try and make up his mind as his subconscious battled it out with him about what to do. "But I think I'll sleep for now. Do you still need me to come and pick you up?"

"_No, no, that's alright; I don't want you behind the wheel of a car if you're feeling like crap. What are you, stupid?_" Matthew snapped. Alfred couldn't help but chuckle at his sudden callousness. "_I'll get a taxi over as far as your place, so don't worry about it. You get some sleep and then we can talk, promise?_"

Alfred made a noncommittal grunt before saying his goodbyes and hanging up, tossing the phone back onto his desk. It hit with a clatter, startling the animal on his stomach into bolting and scampering away to flee the noise. With the warmth gone, Alfred sat up with a groan and rubbed his thumb in circles over his temple, eyes shut.

Sleeping was most definitely his best option, but that could wait for the time being because he had a fucking chandelier to clean.

If he needed to get at least one more thing done that day, that would be it.

* * *

Stepping out of the taxi with a grimace of discomfort, Matthew's hand went to his lower back. A ten hour cash shift. Of all the fucking things, a ten hour cash shift. Okay, well. He had only been on cash for eight hours and had spent an hour in grocery, so he hadn't actually spent _ten hours _on cash; even Roderich wasn't _that _cruel (but his shift, which had originally been only an eight hour, had been upped to a ten because of the fact it had gotten so damn busy all of a sudden, and they told him they'd pay him overtime, so, well, he was still such a fucking sucker).

And not to mention Sadiq had reamed him out again - what was this, the tenth time in the past week? - for being a pushover. Of all the things the man could rag on him about in front of his co-workers, it was that.

Known for being fairly ruthless, downright nasty and a little less than civil on a good day, it was nothing for him to rip a new one for certain employees; until now Matthew had been left alone. That had changed. His workload had increased almost overnight by a tenfold, and he was being given some of the most mundane tasks to do, things they wouldn't even make the newer, more unreliable employees do. Saying that he was the furthest thing from a man; that he needed to grow the fuck up and deal with his problems and keep them from spilling over into his work life. That he needed to learn how to give people back the shit that they gave him (as though he hadn't already mastered that particular art in the first place).

It was an uncomfortable sort of feeling to go to work and put up with almost every day. Needless, demeaning treatment that was beginning to drive him to a breaking point. It made him antsy. The man really seemed to be singling him out lately and there was a good chance it was all because of the numerous days he had taken off over the prior month. What was he supposed to do? Go to work and have an emotional meltdown? But the manager held no sympathy for him, and he just seemed to be interested in harassing him relentlessly.

It wasn't like he _tried _to be a pushover. That just sort of _happened_; it was as though he had no backbone anymore. Like someone had removed the rod of titanium that kept him upright and used it for something of less importance - like an arthritic old lady's cane. A sigh left him as he hitched his messenger bag over his shoulder, cringing with each step he took. Since he had moved from Brooklyn and into Manhattan, he had less of a reason to worry and even less of a reason to watch his back constantly. Even though it felt weird, at least he could relax a bit and not spend his time constantly fretting about getting murdered or something mundane like that. So now he was just turning into this giant softie that couldn't even say no with the slightest conviction.

Unless it was Alfred; when it came to him he still had a spine of steel. No problem saying no there or telling him to go fuck himself.

But when someone at work asked him to do something rather undesirable - like opening up on cash or cleaning the public restrooms - he just couldn't bring himself to say no, that he had other more important things to be attending to. Like counting each individual product and rearranging displays that he and Mathias had already meticulously put together. Hell, even making sure every single product was lined up at the end of the shelf, English-side of the label facing out was by far the most important thing of his mildly anal list of to-do things while working in grocery. Why was it more important? Because Overlord and Master Sadiq Adnan had asked him to do those things.

He muttered blackly to himself about how much he had grown to hate his job, greeted Hugh with a pleasant smile and engaged in a moment of idle banter about the weather, how terrible the traffic was and why there needed to be a better transportation system put it place and then made his way to the elevator with a slight hobble, feeling a lot older than what he actually was.

Once he had gotten to the older man's apartment, he dropped his bag on the floor in the entryway, tugging off his work shoes with a grimace, curling his toes and then leaning back, spine rippling as he did. A sigh of relief left him and he lined his sneakers up against the wall. He had been waiting all day to do that, and now that he had, it felt absolutely perfect.

A perfect state of silence hung over the place, and if it weren't for the box of doughnuts and the (several) empty coffee mugs as well as, oddly enough, cleaning supplies, he would have thought Alfred hadn't been there. The apartment was dark for the most part, the blinds in the loft area having been pulled down to block out the sun as his lover more than likely slept.

For a moment, Matthew stood there and considered his options: go up there now, feeling disgusting after working and being kept for two hours longer than what he was supposed to have been, or go shower before he did anything and feel at least a little bit human as he tended to the lawyer.

He mulled it over, nodded slowly and then settled on raiding Alfred's closet for a t-shirt and pyjama pants for when he got out of the bathroom. And if the clothing was comfortable enough, the man probably wasn't going to be getting it back.

Frankly, all he wanted to do was immerse himself in a steady stream of scalding hot water to get the grime off of his body.

Everything else could wait for just a little while longer.

Once he was showered, dried all over with the exception of his hair still retaining some dampness in the curls despite having been fully dried, and feeling some semblance of humanity returning to him at a snails pace, Matthew sighed as he left the bathroom. Cold air of the apartment prickled along his bare arms and he grumbled to himself, folding them over his chest and walking with quick steps, hissing at how cold the floor was as well. Sluggishness had set in and all he wanted to do now was just crawl under a thick blanket and sleep, curled into Alfred's side and stay there until whenever. To think how quickly things changed. A blissfully stupid smile slipped unknowingly upon his face and he found that acceptance came on all different levels.

While it felt like it had taken him forever and a day to get up over the flight of stairs that lead him to Alfred's sleeping loft - where there was a bed, an arm chair, a walk-in closet, a book case filled with comic books and science fiction books - he uttered a small sigh of relief. That ascent was never-ending. Silently, he slipped into the bed behind Alfred, moulding himself to the older man's back and placing a kiss to his shoulder, draping a skinny arm over his side as he pressed close. The inert lawyer didn't stir even as his boyfriend settled himself on the mattress, resting his forehead at the top of his spine, closing his eyes as he got comfortable.

How long he lay there, he didn't know. Sleep eluded him the entire time but it was alright because for once his thoughts didn't wander too far down a path he would rather they avoid. But it was pitch black out by the time Alfred finally stirred. Pulling back a little as the lawyer rolled over to face him, Mattie offered him a small smile.

"Hey," said the artist lightly.

Al murmured a small 'hey' in return before letting his head hit the pillow again, eyes partially open as he started blankly at nothing in particular. Perhaps he was actually looking at the pattern on the pillow case; Matthew was no stranger to that empty feeling when everything felt like it was after grinding to a standstill and that there was no reason to be doing anything other than nothing at all.

He had been there so many times, that it felt weird to be on the outside looking in on someone going through the same sort of emotional void.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly.

(If the Lamp had been there, it would have scolded him quite thoroughly for asking such a stupid question. '_Good going, Captain Fuckwit, you're a real genius there._')

Not receiving an answer at first, Matthew bit the inside of his cheek and slid up a little in the bed so that he was eyelevel with his boyfriend. His gaze was not met. "Alfred?"

All he did was shake his head 'no'. Matthew wasn't surprised; he had been expecting that. What he hadn't been anticipating, even in the slightest, was Alfred to curl in close to his body, burying his face in both the pillow and his shoulder, arms wrapping around his thin midsection as he pressed in as firmly as he could. And all Matthew knew he could do was hold him there and hope it would pass.

When the shirt he wore started to get inexplicably damp in the general area of his shoulder, the same spot Alfred had his face buried into, and there was a slight trembling going through the American's frame, Matthew realized just how helpless he really felt. And he, in turn, felt that same desolation for there was nothing he could truly do to actually help him.

"C'mon," he whispered, bundling the silently crying man to his chest as close as he possibly could. He threaded his fingers through his hair, hair that was lank and slightly matted from sleeping upon it, and he peppered his forehead with gentle kisses. The grip Alfred had on him only tightened. "S'okay, Love. Cry all you want."

And for once, Alfred seemed to take his advice.

They stayed that way for what felt like a long time as Alfred sobbed into his torso, taking shuddering breaths as he tried to stifle the noise; to quell the flood of tears. And Matthew just lay there and let him, running a hand through his hair and gently massaging at a knot he could feel between his shoulder blades, kneading at the spot with his knuckles until he finally felt the stress knot loosening up. Broad hands were on his back and fisted into the material of the white Iron Man shirt he wore - it was one of Al's favourite shirts, so he would consider giving it back. Only if he was asked several times, though.

When Alfred fell silent and stilled again, Matthew peered down at him. It was hard to tell if he had fallen asleep from the lack of lighting, but from how uneven and ragged his breathing was, he was certain the man was still awake. He continued to pet his hair, humming softly and shutting his eyes. Then the lawyer stirred. Pulling away and rolling over onto his back, he just stared up at the ceiling, wiping at his eyes with his thumb before he sighed and let his arm drape over his face. The Canadian then noticed he was still wearing a dress shirt and the jeans he had been in earlier. He hadn't even bothered changing before he had gotten into bed; had it hit him that hard?

"Sorry about that," Alfred mumbled, not looking at him. "I-I shouldn't have made you stay there through all that. Probably shouldn't have called you earlier, either."

"Fuck off, Jones," Matthew snapped as he scooted closer to his boyfriend, sitting up and stretching before leaning back on his elbows. "If I didn't want you to do that, would I have let you?"

Nothing was said thus proving his point. Instead, Alfred turned his face away from him altogether and instead to the blind-covered window.

Leaning across him, Matthew reached for the lamp and turned it on, illuminating their little corner of the world so he could actually get a good look at the lawyer instead of just going by the outline of his features. Both men grimaced at the burn of the bright light. Blue eyes were rimmed red and there were blotches along his cheeks and forehead from crying so long and hard and frankly he looked downright miserable. Alfred tried to smile at him but the expression was heartbreaking and so all Matthew did was press a gentle kiss to his forehead and hoped for nothing more than the mundane and what would take too long to properly achieve. That was all he could do because there was nothing worth saying anymore and even less he could do to help. When he pulled back to get a look at the man, he couldn't help but smile at the somewhat serene expression on his tear-stained face.

"What is it now?" Alfred asked sourly. "I probably look like a train wreck so why are you even smiling at me like that?"

Considering this for a long moment before answering him, Matthew sat back on his heels and looked down at him. The smile he wore hadn't left him for the simple fact that it felt right.

Done with the brief contemplation of his words, he nodded. "Yeah, you do look like a train wreck." Alfred huffed and rolled over onto his side, muttering blackly about how no one understood the difference between being nice and being honest anymore - because you damn well couldn't be both at the same time. Laughter spilled out of him and Mattie flopped down behind him, spooning against his back once more and pressing a kiss to the patch of skin behind his ear. "But you're _my_ train wreck, which is the main thing, right? And I'll be your train wreck whenever the opportunity rolls around again."

(And knowing his luck, or distinct lack thereof, that chance would more than likely arise sooner rather than later.)

He felt the chest in front of him vibrate with a suppressed chuckle and he smiled into his shirt a knowing, secret smile. A smile meant for Alfred and Alfred alone. The smile wavered and then dropped away altogether as he ran his fingers along the smattering of discolouration along his neck. "A-Alfred, what happened?"

The American shook his head. "You never told me your ex-boyfriend was a psycho, possessive one, nor did you tell me his father was just as bad. If not worse."

"Well, that does explain Dietrich fairly well," he murmured hesitantly. "Considering he was a P.O.W from Vietnam."

"…That explains _everything_."

"But what it doesn't explain is these bruises," snapped Matthew icily, growling lightly as he propped himself up to glare down at the older man.

"Well, he basically said that if I ever hurt you, he'd break my neck," Alfred replied dryly, looking ahead of him instead of up to Mattie. Blonde hair was matted to his forehead and even that odd little cow's lick of his seemed to droop a little. "So he kind of … demonstrated to prove his point, I guess?"

Forehead hitting his shoulder as he flopped back down onto the mattress, he just groaned in exasperation and hit the center of Alfred's back with his fist, earning a flinch from the lawyer. He felt apologetic for a second before that emotion faded and morphed back into a state of anger.

"I'm going to _murder_ Gilbert when I see him."

"You better do a good job disposing of the body," Al murmured. "Because I don't really want to have to put you in jail, Pet; you're too pretty so you wouldn't last very long."

"Yeah, yeah, I'd end up being the communal semen-dump. Shit happens, says I."

Full-fledged laughter spilled out of Alfred and even Matthew chuckled lightly before nuzzling back into his boyfriend's back, running a hand down along his side before grabbing the blankets and pulling them back up so that they were buried once more beneath them. He was ever-so-thankful for Alfred's year-round air condition that kept the condo sub-arctic 24/7; he loved having an excuse to curl up in sweaters and cuddle under the blankets, even if it was almost thirty of forty Celsius out. And having year-round cooling - even in the dead of winter - was the perfect way to rationalize the idea.

Both of them lapsing into silence, Matthew just draped his arm across Alfred's waist, running his fingers along his lower abdomen, the material of his shirt soft and wrinkled. Jones, on the other hand, brought his knees up a little further to his chest so that the young artist could curl around him perfectly.

Smiling lopsidedly he noted that they fit perfectly like this.

A hand sought his and they twined their fingers together, Matthew finally shutting his eyes with a sigh, forehead pressed to the back of Al's neck. He smelt like coffee, cigarettes, clean bed sheets and something comfortable. It was weird combination of things, but he liked it.

"Maybe, one of these days, I'll pen just for you an epic worthy of Beowulf status," Alfred said suddenly, a watery laugh accompanying his words. Indigo eyes opened, unfocused and confused at first. "And it'll be about a kid that wanted to be a pilot when he was growing up, a fighter pilot in the American Army - or maybe the Canadian one, just cause it'll be for you and because it doesn't have to be completely accurate, right? - and not a lawyer with ninety-nine problems he brought onto himself because he was a stupid, insecure bastard and he just didn't want to _deal_ with real life and the loneliness he put up with on a regular basis. But either way, I'll have to include that other idiot whose life he managed to somehow force his way into because everyone enjoys a good plot twist, right? Right."

Matthew said nothing; only held him closer because he was shivering again. He didn't want to hear Alfred saying things like this - self-destructive, emotionally nuclear things like this. Didn't want to see him having a meltdown of jumbled words and incoherent thoughts that would get him nowhere other than further down. Didn't want to see him crying or hurting or unhappy or feeling anything less than amazing because he was one of the few people in the world that deserved nothing less than a happiness nonpareil.

Presumptuous as it was, it was what he believed and that he would stand by.

"Or maybe I won't write it for you because I don't have the right words to use or any words at all," he said in a barely there voice that even Matthew couldn't achieve no matter how hard he tried. What he said rang hollow and made him feel empty beyond most depressing imaginings. Even just listening to him speak in that feeling-devoid voice was making him feel low. "So for now, I'll just crave cocaine and McDonalds, be content with you holding me and I'll just tell myself everything will be okay even if that little kid never got to be a fighter pilot because, sometimes, stories tend to write themselves without letting you know you're being taken along for the ride."

And Matthew said nothing still because he didn't have the words, either.

* * *

I didn't really like this chapter at first. In fact, I hated it and I was considering scrapping it to try and write something different altogether. But then, after I went back and edited a shitton of times, I feel pretty good about it. Hopefully you guys will like it~

And aaaaa thank you guys so much for all the reviews! It still blows my mind about all the responses it gets, haha. It really, really does.

Much love, guys. Tons of it.


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.**

Matthew had nearly laughed himself into a coma when Alfred found out it was his birthday three days before when it actually was.

It was really fucking funny to him, how his eyes had widened and how his jaw hung slack and that he seemed veritably panicked over the fact that he did not have a gift for him. Not so much as the fact that he didn't even realize it was his birthday in the first place, but because he didn't have anything to give to him. For a good few minutes he had been speechless and staring the younger man down as though he had committed a crime that was completely unforgivable.

And then came the outburst:

"B-B-But I _have _to give you a birthday gift!" Alfred had trilled, dropping his bottle of Coca Cola and, thankfully the cap was on it because otherwise Matthew would have slugged him for making a mess of his recently cleaned floor.

Groaning and rubbing his face, he had crashed down onto the nearest chair and propped the balls of his feet up onto the stool next to him. "Alfred, you're a materialistic slob," he had snapped with a wicked glint in his eyes. "I don't _need _a present for my birthday. We can just hang out and watch a movie for all I care - that's enough for me."

"That's not cool, though," Alfred had grumbled. The man's back had been turned to him as he stood at the fridge, browsing through it for a bit before he came away with a strawberry cheesecake pudding. Typical. "I … I _want _to get you something. You deserve something awesome."

They then proceeded to bicker over why he didn't need a present - in Matthew's humble opinion - and why he supposedly did need a present - in Alfred's not nearly as humble opinion.

And that was how they managed to get to this point, sitting in Matthew's apartment once again, staring each other down. Hostility filled the Canadian's eyes and the American merely gloated at yet another success. What was happening to him? Was he actually losing his touch, or was the lawyer just suddenly immune to it? From the grin on his face, a smug grin that said he knew who the winner of this battle was, he realized that it was possibly the latter option - he knew from being around Alfred so often had made him immune to his annoying, sweet charm and just how positively endearing he could be.

Colour tinged his cheeks pink as he accepted a gift bag from the American with a low grumble of thanks. There was a fair weight to the contents of the bag and he huffed; when he had agreed to let him buy a gift, the lawyer promised he wouldn't spend very much on him. Blue eyes were alight and excited, and he wondered if the older man was more excited about getting a present than what he was.

Given how heavy the present felt, it was obvious that Alfred Jones did not know how to listen very well, if at all.

Despite the argument they had over whether or not he would get a present, here he sat on the sofa, holding a gift on his lap on the evening after his actual birthday. They had agreed that, since there wasn't much time in between their respective birthdays, they would exchange gifts on the same day (once Matthew had accidentally let it slip that he had a present for Alfred, all Hell broke loose and that was _final, _Matthew Williams you are getting a fucking birthday present whether I have to tie you down and make you take it).

(What he wasn't going to admit to was the fact that he was, in all actuality, _very _excited to be getting a birthday present.)

Carefully removing the tissue paper (Alfred rolled his eyes at this) and setting it down on the cushion beside him, Matthew removed the card and slipped it out of the envelope. It wasn't some mushy, gushy heartfelt card you'd get a boyfriend or a girlfriend, but instead it was a simple, humorous card that brought a smile of gratitude to his face because apparently Alfred knew him better than he had initially thought.

Setting the card down to the side, upon the table next to the sofa, he smiled lightly at the eagerness of the other. Alfred had sat down beside him and was resting his chin upon his shoulder, alternating between glancing down into the contents of the bag and flicking his eyes to his boyfriend, a grin remaining unchecked on his face.

Rolling his eyes, Matthew simply put his hands into the bag and removed the box that was in there, eyes going wide. He almost dropped it and then scrambled to get a better grip on it. "Y-You," he stuttered, almost dropping the box and its precious cargo before he clutched it to his chest like a man drowning would with a life preserver. "What is … I can't believe it. I, oh my God Alfred. W-Where the fuck did you find something like _this _on such short notice?"

"That's what the magic of having friends in high places can do for you," Alfred murmured with a laugh, giving the younger man a peck on the cheek, hands on either shoulder.

In his hands he held a boxed collection of all of Stephen King's Gunslinger novels, all of which were in hardcover. The collection was something he had been looking for, and for ages at that. While he had three or four of the novels in the series, they weren't in the most commendable condition, and frankly, he hated it when books weren't well-kept. But this? This was golden. This was absolutely _golden. _He didn't want to know how much it was worth, nor did he want to know who this friend of Alfred's was.

Ten bucks said it was Arthur, but he would keep that thought to himself.

"There's, ah, somethin' else in there, too," Alfred said with a subtle cough and a grin on his face as Matthew looked over at him with wide, astonished eyes.

Placing the books to his side, he turned a little to glare at the American. "You didn't have to get me so much, Jones," he snapped. "You damn well know a card would have been good enough an-" His words were cut off as a mouth pressed over his own, forcing him to stop talking and start using his tongue for something a little more productive.

Alfred was smirking when he pulled away, but his cheeks were flushed, traitorous in saying just how much he had enjoyed doing that and just how much it had rattled his nerves at the same time. Together for a whole month and he still seemed nervous about kissing him unexpectedly, as though he anticipated Matthew to be displeased with the sudden action.

Maybe the endearingness of the man was something he hadn't become immune to.

Shaking his head with a soft chuckle as Alfred set his chin back down on his shoulder, he reopened the bag and peered into it, eyes widening. This time he didn't even take the object out, but instead set down the bag upon realizing what it was, launched himself at his boyfriend and clung to him, cheeks reddening as he fisted his hands into the material of his t-shirt (this one happened to be Spiderman).

"I'm going to _kill _you."

"Do you like it?"

"Of _course_ I do, fuckhead."

"I always knew you were a hipster at heart."

There was the sound of a hand smacking a chest and a slight 'oof' upon the contact.

"_Punk._"

For the record, Alfred had gotten him a Polaroid camera, as well as several boxes of the film.

Removing the camera from the bag once he had found it in himself to let go, he turned it around in his hands as he studied it, a grin slowly taking up space on his face. "I remember I had one of these when I was younger," Mattie said softly, looking at the lens before placing it on the table in front of them. "My mom gave me one for Christmas when I was eleven. The pictures I took were awful because I had no sense of perspective or light-dark ratio, but I kept the photo album I put everything into all the same because, after my mom gave me the camera, that was when I really started to get into art and all that. So why throw out what started one of the most important things in my life, and one of the few things that's kept me in mainly one piece?"

"I guess you don't have it anymore, do you?" Alfred asked lightly, pulling back as Matthew made to stand.

Eyes blank and smile bitter, he shook his head. "Nope," he said coldly. "That's back with Jason, too. If he didn't burn all of my stuff, which I daresay he did." His laugh was hollow and then it dropped altogether.

Leaving everything behind the way he had had been even more painful, more heartbreaking, than when he had been kicked out in the first place. He was too in shock at first to properly acknowledge that he was homeless at the age of eighteen; but then when it clued in, devastating wasn't even the right word to describe it. So many paintings he had made, gone. His sketchbooks, his text books from high school and the text books he had gotten for his university courses gone. The collection of vinyl records he and Gilbert had worked on for months, gone.

Everything.

_Gone._

Leaving the living room and running a hand through his hair, giving a few sharp tugs on it to reassure himself that he could still feel and that those particular sensors hadn't been shut off in the way he felt like they might have been, he inhaled slowly and then exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring and eyes fluttering shut. It took so little to just cause a trigger. A trigger he didn't need (or want, to be more precise) at the moment. He ignored Alfred's call of 'where are you going?' in favour of his own thoughts for the time being.

(Maybe, if he ran into Jason some day, he would kill the man on an ill-placed whim. Something like that would be simply _splendid_.)

Anyway, the present he had gotten for his boyfriend was stowed away in his bedroom, shoved in underneath the frame of his bed a little further than what he probably should have.

Dropping to his knees and leaning forward upon his elbows, he pressed his cheek to the rug and peered in under the space, edging closer as he extended his arm. His fingertips just barely brushed alongside the box and he heaved a frustrated grunt as he stretched further. Why the fuck had he pushed it so far under the bed in the first place? The stretching and grunting continued until he was half-way under the bed and slowly wiggling his way back out with the gift in tow. _Success._ He stopped moving and let his head hit the floor with a loud _thump _when he felt a firm weight on his lower back, and two legs pressed against either side of his thin body.

Groaning loudly, he hit his fist off of the floor before resting his cheek on the carpet, shutting his eyes and just lying there as Alfred sat on his lower back. He was a dead weight to say the least, even though he was warm. But that didn't make any difference; the fucker was outright resting all his weight on his hips and be damned if he couldn't feel them digging into the floor.

He didn't need to look at the man to know he was smiling and about as smug as a sated cat.

Surprising him and catching him a little off guard, soft and warm hands slid up under his shirt, fingertips gently kneading at the muscles of his back and Matthew couldn't help but let out a satisfied whine at the feeling. Impromptu massage? There was nothing he could find to complain about. Fingertips changed to palms pressing on his mid-back, and then they migrated down to his lower back. Another whine of content escaped him unchecked. He heard Alfred chuckle, flushed at the sound and was suddenly dragged out from under the bed by broad hands settled upon his waist.

Rolling over to stare up at the older man, Matthew gave a stupid grin before removing the gift from beneath with him.

Grinning stupidly, he offered it to Alfred. "Happy birthday, Princess?"

Alfred laughed and shook his head, crawling off of his boyfriend's body and flopping down on the floor to sit next to him, back up against the wooden frame of the bed. He held the box in his lap, running his fingers along the wrapping and plucking at the bow - a gaudy gold and burgundy bow that Matthew picked out for the simple fact that it was so obnoxious, just like the lawyer - before he looked to his lover.

"How long have you had this for?" he inquired, obviously loving just how smooth the paper was as he kept dragging his fingers along it.

Grabbing hold of Al's hand to keep it still, Matthew sidled up next to the lawyer and leant against him, twining their fingers together. "I've had it for you since April, actually."

The expression fell from his face. "And you told me, vehemently and with more swear words than usual, to not get you a gift?"

Matthew gave a meek smile, letting go of his hand and shrugging a little. "Maybe?"

"Fucker," Alfred grunted, almost hesitant to ruin the lovely wrapping job Mattie had done on the box.

Watching the man beside him with a sort of eagerness, the artist pressed closer and huffed. "Just open it already," he snapped, striking him on the upper arm and glaring with a sort of brattiness.

Laughing and saying nothing more lest he receive another smack, he tore into the wrapping on the present, a curious expression crossing his face upon laying eyes on the blank box before him. Sliding his finger along the edges and undoing the bits of tape as he came across it which were a little more numerous than what he would have appreciated ("It's harder than trying to get into Fort Knox on a lockdown"), he finally managed to get the cover off of the box off and, when he did, his eyes went wide.

Moving away from the openly smiling Canadian and rising to rest on his knees as he set the box upon the floor, he lifted from it a jacket. It was fairly simple for the most part, but it was heavy and thick in his hands - something that would be perfect for the late fall and winter once it returned. The exterior of it was brown leather, smooth and clean, while the inside of it appeared to be made of a sort of lambskin - soft to the touch. It was somewhat faded in colour, which meant it was old - that also explained the lack of a new-leather smell. But this wasn't a thrift store find; this was something he picked up at a vintage clothing location. Something you had to pay good money to get. There were emblems on it, different patches along the front and the sleeves on either side. Upon turning the jacket around, he grinned at the number '50' that was embroidered there in white leather.

A genuine bomber jacket.

Slipping it on, he adjusted the warm jacket and sighed at how nicely it fit him; how it hugged his broad shoulders as though it had been tailored to someone exactly his size.

Matthew smiled up at him, delighted with the reaction. When he had bought it he had been second guessing himself, figuring Alfred didn't need something like that and if he did he could get it himself. But then he had looked at it again on the hanger in the store he had gone into and thought about it: what was the chance of finding the coat again by the time his birthday rolled around? It was one of those one-of-a-kind jackets; one of those 'buy it now or live with it later when you come back the next day and find it's already been sold'.

So he had gotten it, and now he was glad that he had.

Standing, the lawyer moved to stand in front of a full-length mirror, scrutinizing his reflection. "It fits so well," he murmured, running his hand down along the front of his jacket before turning around on the spot as though he were modelling it for his boyfriend. "Where did you get it?"

He gave a light shrug. "A store," he said, with a vague wave of the hand. Something he would more than likely take as a reason to press forward and keep asking.

Alfred looked slightly frustrated, but he kept the jacket close to his body despite the warmth in Matthew's apartment. "What did I say to you about spending x amount of money on me if it's more than ten dollars?"

The Canadian looked away, gave a small smile before standing and adjusting the jacket and running his hands down along the smooth brown leather. He tilted his head as he studied him with an admiring look. "You look pretty good in this," he murmured, easily evading Al's demand about his spending. He didn't need to know how much it cost for the simple fact that it was worth it. "But I'll let you know one thing about it - the jacket was worn by an American that fought during World War II under a Canadian identity in the RCAF because he wanted to contribute to the war effort even when his nation had nothing to do with it, and he was fairly well-decorated by the end of it. So I figured why not get a hero's jacket and give it to my own hero?"

Tanned cheeks went rosy from the statement and he coughed into a curled fist, looking away. But Matthew caught the off-guard smile on his face. "You're such a suck up," Al grumbled, staring distractedly at the cuff of the bomber jacket.

"It's true, though," Mattie said lightly, moving forward and wrapping his arms around his slightly pudgy middle and pressing his face down against his shoulder, inhaling the smell of clean leather. He couldn't wait until this jacket smelt of Alfred and not the plastic preservation case it had come out of. "The part about it being worn by a RCAF fighter pilot, not the fact that I'm a suck up."

"But you _are _a suck up."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Shut it, bitch; I'm not a suck up."

"Are too."

"I may be good at sucking, but I'm no suck up."

Alfred's mouth clicked shut at the out-of-the-blue statement, his cheeks went cherry red and he looked away, putting a hand over his mouth. He pulled his hand down slowly as though he were trying to wipe away a smile. "Cheeky asshole." There was a dark glint in the man's eyes and it caused a shiver to ripple down the Canadian's spine; the sort of shiver that made his toes curl and made him giddy all at once - it was anticipation.

Despite the fact that he was the one that shivered at the heated look directed his way, he just shook his head, saying, "Don't look too eager, Princess." Smirking, Matthew flicked his nose before turning on his heel and stretching, wandering out of the bedroom with his arms still raised over his head.

Temptation was a lot stronger than he had thought.

By the time he had settled down on the sofa with his new camera, he looked over to see Alfred finally coming out to join him. The man was still blushing, but it was a look he liked on him; it gave him a boyish air that he thought was kind of adorable. Not wanting to lose the look and without any warning, he lifted the camera and pressed the button, grinning amusedly at the taken aback look on his face as the flash went off, illuminating the room. Blinking rapidly several times, he massaged at his eyes and removed his glasses. When he replaced them he still looked as though he felt a little bit foggy. Matthew just grinned as he shook the image into colour.

"You're supposed to tell me to say cheese first, dumbass," Alfred grunted, crashing down on the sofa as he slid off his new jacket and plucked the Polaroid out of his boyfriend's fingertips. He studied it for a moment before smiling. "How candid of you. What are you gonna do with it?"

He shrugged and set the picture down on the table along with the camera. "I don't know," he said softly. "Keep it? _Duh_."

Al rolled his eyes. Languidly stretching, he set his heels down on the table only for Matthew to shove them off with a snarled 'no feet on the table, prick'. Plucking at the back of his jacket, running fingers along the old, smooth material, the New Yorker smiled fondly and then stared ahead at nothing in particular. His boyfriend was just as content to be sharing the silence, curled into the man's side with his head on his shoulder as his eyes slipped shut.

His relationship with Alfred was way different than what he had with Gilbert, and even more so than what he had with Lars (because honestly, the relationship he had with his art teacher mainly consisted of them smoking weed, having sex and talking about art - usually in that order, too. While the sex was _incredible _and it was amazing to have someone to talk with about art, there was really nothing else there keeping them together). And he remembered with Gilbert, that they couldn't really share a silence; maybe the older man had some sort of disorder that rendered him useless in the art of sitting down and doing nothing. When they were together, they always had to be doing something - it was very rare they just sat at home and watched a movie, or did absolutely nothing at all.

Saying nothing, he let his eyes slide shut, oddly tranquil. Peaceful. That was the word for it. While he would not admit it to the other, he loved it when they were simply sat like this - Alfred with an arm draped over his shoulder and he curled up against him, just listening to the quiet; somewhere in his apartment a clock was ticking slowly.

Time was passing slowly that afternoon, and that was the way he thought it should be.

Eyes turning upwards, he felt his cheeks warm when he saw Alfred looking at him with a soft expression; his brow was furrowed but there was a tiny smile curling his lips upward, eyes crinkling at the corners.

He looked happy, the artist decided in a way that made him feel lighter. He looked so, so much better than last week. Last week when the lawyer had spent four days curled up in bed with his cat, curled up with Matthew when he wasn't working, and managed to re-read an entire novel series within those days in between sleeping like a man in a coma. Something fantasy, a genre Matthew had never taken a liking to.

Seeing him happy was more than enough.

Then shifting his weight and sitting on Alfred's lap, Matthew pressed their noses together, grinning at how the man's eyes widened. Arms moved to wrap around his waist. "So, are you coming with me tonight to Gil's place for that party he's having?"

(On the matter of the friendship that was almost destroyed, things between Matthew and Gilbert had been patched up once more, and the Canadian no longer felt the desire to murder the German-American and rob him of the air he was stealing on a regular basis. But that was mainly because he had busted his friend's nose, and in turn, bruised his hand to the point of being unable to curl that hand into a proper fist. Thankfully, he was left-handed, and he punched with his right. So Beilschmidt was the one that suffered in the end, really.)

His boyfriend scrunched up his nose at the request and Matthew figured that would be the response so he wasn't all that disappointed.

"I'd rather not see the guy, for one," Alfred said with a sigh, head flopping back against the top of the sofa. "And number two is that … yeah. That's basically it. I don't want to breathe the same air he's breathing."

Sighing, Matthew shook his head lazily. "Well, at least I like _your_ friends?" he offered with a wry smile before moving back to sit on a cushion. He kept his legs draped across Alfred's thighs.

Laughing, the lawyer nodded. "My friends are pretty easy to like, I'll give them that much credit," he said. It was nice, the Canadian decided, that he was finally calling the guys his friends after all this time. "Although everyone hates Chris, and it doesn't help all that much because Chris hates everyone equally. Or maybe it does because he doesn't have to worry about everyone else's opinions about his distinct lack of a personality."

"That's not nice," he hummed in reply, scowling. "Chris is nice to me, so I see no reason to hate him."

"He's only nice to you because he thought you were a woman," Al said dryly. Matt could feel his cheeks heat up and he scowled. "He thought you were a very pretty woman at first and so he couldn't find it in his rotten little heart to be a dick to you. He's the same with all women."

"You make him sound like an asshole," he huffed.

"That's cause he _is _an asshole," was the reply.

Sitting upright and crossing his legs, Matthew leant back against the sofa. "What's your problem with him, anyway?" he demanded. "And what's his problem with you?"

It was something he had been wondering for a while now - about this stupid, pseudo-hatred the two men shared in equal amounts. While he knew the two could be perfectly civil -he had been witness to those cataclysmic events when they occurred several times every month or two - he also knew that, for some reason, they loved being at each other's throats, dropping insults left, right and center, and just downright hating on one another. It was strange, and Matthew couldn't help but think it was as childish as fuck and that the two of them needed to grow a pair and get over it.

"Well, he's always been jealous of me, that's for sure. Like, man, it's fuckin' common knowledge that he's been after my job for the past year since I've gotten it. He doesn't think it's fair that I wasn't even working as a lawyer for a full year and I got DA position, when he has more experience on me." Alfred snorted. "But he doesn't take in account the fact that I have several public speaking courses under my belt, that I passed my final year at Harvard with top honours in academics and the fact that I do more volunteer work in a week than he does in a year. Those kinds of things are looked at, besides the success you've had with your cases. Before being DA, I worked as a defence lawyer, believe it or not. And I had more winning cases for the simple fact that, even if it's bullshit, I can talk my way around, into and out of virtually anything. So, they took that into consideration and chose me to be district attorney over Chris for the simple fact that if I can save 'em, surely I can convict them, too. And what pisses him off even more is that, instead of me being elected in by the general public which is how it usually happens, the judicial heads basically let me have the job on a two year's probation and, if I didn't fuck it up, I could keep the position for another two years and then run during the elections for DA. In other words, I had the fucking gig handed to me on a silver platter and I didn't have to bust my ass for it or anything. No election campaign to worry about, no scrounging around for sponsors, no 'vote me in bitches'. Just 'sign a few documents and Manhattan is yours to take care of, try not to fuck it up'. So there's his _professional_ dislike for me which is fine and dandy. I totally understand it.

"And, honestly, we just never got along very well in university, either. Total polar opposites. He played with the geeks in the math league, computer class and the chess club. He also played croquet and, for some ungodly reason, water polo. He spent his weekends with the local glee club and welcoming committee and riding horses with his girlfriend. I, on the other hand, played as a varsity quarterback for my first year, basketball for the next year and then I headed the law society for my last three years and was part of the fraternity there. We were constantly arguing then, too. But, like, he's an interesting guy and all and I think he has the best intentions. I still don't like him all that much."

"Okay, well, why don't _you_ like him?" Matthew pressed. "We know why he doesn't like you and I understand that pretty well, but not your end."

He was beginning to feel a little like McKnight and it was making his head go all wonky in ways he didn't quite approve of and then he remembered that, next week, he had to go to therapy and maybe it would be a good thing because, frankly, he was feeling stressed and he knew Alfred had more than enough to deal with on his plate than to worry about his manic ravings.

For a moment his boyfriend was quiet - too quiet - and he wondered if his question had gone unheard; he had asked pretty quietly, too, so maybe that was it. But then Alfred proved that wasn't the point when he spoke, picking up the jacket and looking at it with a smile before he just shook his head. "I was jealous of him because of the fact that he had a girlfriend and lots of close friends that didn't want to hang out with him just because of the name they were being associated with."

Matthew regretted asking him, but said nothing. Better off letting him speak.

"I mean, I'm not that bad now. The friends he had in university are the same, and they kind of dragged me into their group, not caring who I was or what I did, and it's the group I hang out with now. So that's not what bothers me. It was up until last month I was jealous of him, simply for the fact that he had an amazing relationship going for him; he and Vanessa have been married for a year now, and I was so jealous that it hurt." A laugh left him, but it wasn't bitter. It was just a laugh, somewhat scornful and Matt knew it was directed inwards. "But now I'm not jealous at all, y'know? I have no reason to be."

Okay, so maybe he didn't completely regret asking him the question. He couldn't help but wonder if this was how McKnight felt at times during one of their sessions; were there ever times when his psychiatrist ever wanted to take back a question once he got the answer?

Who knew; maybe he would ask him.

Grinning and tousling his hair, pushing the thoughts aside and deciding to focus solely on the moment, Matthew pinched his cheek. "Well aren't you a doll," he teased, gently biting at his lover's chin before pulling away and flopping backwards, still keeping his legs draped across Al's thighs as he stared up at the ceiling. A thumb was on his knee doodling inane little circles and he twitched at the sensation. "So if you're not going with me, what are your plans for the night?"

Alfred continued to draw those stupid, maddening circles on his kneecap; his touch was gentle but he could still feel it through the material of the jeans he was wearing and that was what was so teasing about it. "I think I'm going to hit the gym tonight," he said. "Arthur volunteered to go with me and, honestly, the thought of that scrawny little limey fucker running on a tread mill in a pair of gym shorts just adds to the motivation."

And Matthew couldn't help but agree because the mental image conjured by just _saying _that caused him to burst out laughing, and he did so hysterically until the point that breathing eluded him.

Arthur Kirkland in a pair of shorts?

That was something he would pay to see, but considering he was dating Kirkland's brother, he wouldn't have to pay a single fucking penny because if he knew Alfred as well as he thought he did, he could be sure the man would take a picture of the judge and that it would be all over Facebook and tagged with 'Arthur Kirkland' and 'look at these fucking knobbly knees; fucking _look_ at them'.

This was just plain splendid.

* * *

It was around nine by the time Alfred finally decided to go to the gym; Matthew had been gone for almost an hour and he had already received one stoned text - the first of what would undoubtedly be many - from the Canuck describing why the Pythagorean Theorem was amazing and why it should be applied to everything possible, like cooking pasta and adding maple syrup to it would be really good and fuck it all he wanted a pet polar bear so he cou- and then the word count, thankfully, ran out.

Matthew Williams, stoned, was probably one of the greatest things ever.

Although he had only been around the Canadian twice when he was like that, the first time was during the first month they had known each other and he figured out the guy was stoned simply for the fact that he had been a lot chattier than what he had been used to. Friendly, too. He had lost his intent to maim, and they had a fairly interesting conversation about politics (how his brain had functioned at all during that was mind blowing) and he had proceeded to almost eat Alfred out of house and home at the same time. For such a tiny guy, he could put away enough to embarrass a trucker.

Second time had been when the two of them had gotten stoned together back in February, a few days after Valentine's Day. Neither of them knew what to do but both of them were intent on finding some way to spend the afternoon, and Matthew happened to find a joint in his coat pocket. It had been very unexpected and quite welcomed. He looked at Alfred, Alfred looked at him. A silent agreement was made at that instant. They then proceeded to get stoned out of their minds because they had nothing better to do.

A grin broke out across his face despite the fact that he was spending his Wednesday night running on a treadmill and sweating while his boyfriend went and got perfectly stoned and drunk out of his mind.

Before he had left to go to the party Gilbert and a few of his friends were pulling together (a very last minute affair, according to his lover), the Canadian had asked him - had actually _asked _him - if he could smoke a joint or two during the party. If he didn't want him to, or if it would piss him off, then he wouldn't - but there was no way he wasn't having a few (see: enough to encourage alcohol poisoning) drinks. Alfred had told him that he was perfectly fine with it because, frankly, weed wasn't nearly as harmful as what he had been taking in and it didn't make him as hypocritical as he might have figured. He also told him that, once he thought himself to be completely fine and without the remotest craving for cocaine, the two of them were going to get properly stoned and they would watch A Scanner Darkly for the sheer mind fuckery of it.

The building was cool; almost enough to warrant wearing a sweater against the chill produced by the air conditioning. Outside in the city where the temperature was the true definition of 'polar opposite', the heat was a damp one; humid and the smell created by it was putrid. In a way, it reminded him of the metro; it was as though the subway had made its way up from the underground and was sneaking its tentacles through the streets, extending them and touching everything with its black stench.

Vacated for the most part, there were a few other gym-goers; a handful of elderly people riding the bikes. Some testosterone-fuelled iron buff bench pressing God only knew how much. A group of young women were running on some treadmills on the other side of the space.

Wednesday nights were usually quiet there, which was why he chose this facility in particular. Sure it wasn't an overly popular place, not many people went there on a regular basis, there were no personal trainers, some of the equipment needed to be replaced, the staff looked like they were half-dead and it looked like the vending machine hadn't had its contents replaced in a few months, but it wasn't a _total_ dive. There were no strict programs to follow, none of that membership bullshit to put up with. He liked the fact that you paid twenty-seven dollars a month, no strings attached.

Usually, he went alone. Like when he did some of his volunteer work - mainly what he did with OXFAM and sometimes at the hospital, depending on what they needed him for - he used that as his 'alone time' (despite the fact that his meaning of alone time had been drastically altered within the past few months). Going to the gym with other people felt awkward and that was a feeling, if there was one at all, that he liked to try his best to avoid.

But at least he wasn't at the gym alone this time; that would be depressing on a whole different level. Nothing was more awkward in his mind than going to the gym to lose weight instead of just staying in shape. Running beside him and breathing heavily through his nose, Arthur (knobbly, juvenile knees and all) tried to keep pace with his brother.

And failed miserably, of course.

That just went unsaid.

"_Christ_ Alfred," he gasped, pinching at the front of his shirt and shaking it as though he were trying to cool himself. "How is it you gain a ton of weight, don't exercise for weeks on end, and you still manage to run for nearly ten minutes without breaking a real sweat?"

"It's because I'm fucking _amazing,_" Alfred snarked with a thin smile. While Arthur was right and he hadn't broken much of a sweat; though his breathing was heavier and his lungs were feeling tight. "I'm just permanently this fucking, in-shape Soviet tank and goddammit I am splendid and there ain't no stoppin' me once I start."

"Really?" Arthur demanded in a flat voice, head falling back and a grunt of exasperation leaving him as he tried his best to keep up with his younger brother's easy, loping gait. "You're a bloody fucking Soviet tank now, are you? I thought you were against those Russians for some odd reason."

Glancing over, he smirked. "It's cause they're all Reds and, frankly, better dead than Red, right?" He shook his head lightly. "Actually, no, I'm not a tank. I'm just a fucking Transformer. _I am Optimus Prime_. Bitches _love_ Optimus Prime."

Arthur stared blankly at him before he slowed to a jog and then finally made his way into a walk, pushing his sweaty bangs from his forehead with a heavy sigh. "Why did I agree to do this with you?" he demanded with a groan of petulance.

"Because you are a supportive elder brother that wants his sibling to be as happy as he possibly can, all things considered and-" he choked off, eyes widening and a groan of his own leaving him. "Oh God, who invited you, Jeff?" Then he blinked. "Who invited _any_ of you, actually?"

The petit blonde man had jumped onto the treadmill in front of the lawyer after he seemingly came out of nowhere (the closet had been abandoned long ago), Allan on one side of him and Chris, scowling but of course, on the other side.

"Alfred, bay-_bay,_" the elfin man crooned, his forced Brooklyn accent clashing dreadfully with his thick Southern accent. "How you doin' _gaw-jus._"

Chris, walking beside him at a leisurely pace, deadpanned with a blank expression, "I don't think he needs two gay men in his life. Keep it in your pants, would you? Not everyone wants to see your floppy, two inch piece of art in action."

And Allan simply spat his water everywhere as he burst out laughing - and right into Arthur's face, of course. The Briton spluttered and came to a full stop, rolling back off of the treadmill with an offended look on his face as he wiped the liquid from his skin. Then he turned to Alfred, not a word leaving him but obviously demanding a full, and lengthy, explanation.

"Hey, Arthur? I'd like you to meet my friends: Allan, Chris and Jeff. Guys, this is my sexually frustrated and fairy-loving half-brother from England, Arthur Kirkland."

Even Chris snickered at the interesting shade of plum Arthur's face somehow managed to turn.

"Oh, I'm quite positively charmed to meet your spiffy acquaintance, Sir Sexually Frustrated and Fairy-Loving Half-Elder-Brother from England!" Jeff declared in a high, British-sounding falsetto.

Arthur looked like he was out for blood and Alfred wondered if Matthew was too drunk already to protect him should he need it.

"You look as though you could potentially be in danger," Chris commented in an idle tone, looking bored as he observed the exchange between the siblings.

"I think you might be right," Alfred said lightly, slowing the treadmill down so that he was simply jogging instead of running. His heart was beating savagely against his rib cage and he was breathing heavily; the legs supporting him were starting to wobble a little.

"Should I plan your funeral out for you, or shall I leave that for Matthew to take care of?" he inquired pleasantly, picking up his own pace and starting out with a bit of a jog.

Alfred considered it. "I'll leave it to you; Mattie might make it a little too weird, even for my tastes."

"You guys have the weirdest conversations, you know that, right?" Allan said suddenly, a look of pure fascination upon his face. "I mean, this is fuckin' riveting, listening to you two talk like civilized human beings instead of going for the throat and then throwing a verbal sucker punch right to the dick."

"Don't we always behave like civilized human beings, Dickshit?" Chris asked plaintively, batting his eyes in the DA's direction.

"But of course, Fuckface. We _always_ behave like civilized human beings," replied Alfred with a bright smile, puckering his lips after a moment.

Arthur blinked, looking between the two men with an incredulous expression. Then he turned to Allan simply for the fact that the man was across from him. "Are they always like … _this_?" he asked in a semi-exasperated voice, disbelief stemming from the words.

Nodding slowly, Allan sighed and ran a hand through his hair, doing a double-take in Jeff's direction upon noticing the dopey expression on his face as he ran with a girlish sort of gait. "They're always like it," he grunted, rolling his eyes. "Getting along isn't something they understand how to do."

"I noticed that much," Kirkland grunted, stretching and subtly giving his younger brother a swat across the back of the head for no good reason at all.

Jones said nothing but he grimaced at the gesture, massaging the back of his skull and sending him a sharp look; all he got in return was a smug smile of sorts. Arthur didn't need a reason to inflict abuse; if asked he would turn around and say I am your elder brother therefore I have long since earned the right to subject you to various forms of mild abuse so deal with it.

The group of men lapsed back into silence, Chris sticking a pair of earbuds into his ears and turning on his iPod as he jogged, staring ahead of him with a blank expression - The Great Wall of China of Social Interaction. Arthur walked at a leisurely pace as did Alfred, while Allan and Jeff didn't seem to know exactly what it was they were doing. They were alternating between running and jogging, and they were discussing what was more than likely some inane topic beneath their breath so that the others didn't hear them. Despite being two of the loudest and most obnoxious individuals he knew, they were terrifyingly private when it came to their one-on-one discussions. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that they were also the closest out of any of them, given they had known each other since childhood as they had both grown up in some small town in the Middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, Texas. Jeff kept looking to his iPod, presumably to the time, and Allan kept glancing at the watch he was wearing, as though he were waiting for something to happen.

"Do you two suffer anxiety problems?" Arthur demanded in a flat voice, studying the men with an unamused look on his face. Irritation levels were rising, that much the district attorney could tell.

"No," Jeff said slowly, "but we _did _hijack-"

"You can't say the H-word in New York, let alone today's society, Wills," Allan cut in suddenly as he reprimanded the tiny blonde. "It has too much potential context and then the next thing you know, the FBI is gonna pop out of nowhere and they'll drag your ass to Guantanamo Bay for questioning and various methods of torture, including electrical currents to your testicles and forcing you to sit down and watch reruns of Hannah Montana."

"Christ, not Hannah Montana!" Jeff gave a shudder of mock horror. "Okay, so, we _commandeered _the radio system out in the backroom and tech genius here," he gestured with his thumb to his fellow Texan, "managed to rewire it in five minutes - or was it less? - for it to pick up the frequency of the old radio in the dance class downstairs from here has. Their class starts at nine thirty sharp, and we're friends with the instructor, so she agreed to play a certain song at 9:37 - we fucking synchronized our iPods and _everything._ Just so we have an excuse to do something fun while Chris drags us along because, apparently, my bro and I are inherently out of shape and so he's taking it upon himself to drag us along to the gym so we can 'stop being lazy, fatass lards with no future'. According to his all-knowing intelligence and other such nonsense, that is."

"He _does_ have a good point," Allan pointed out. "When was the last time either of us went to the gym?"

"Probably a few months ago; I'm surprised Chrissy hasn't divorced you on account of your forming pot belly," Wills grunted as he rolled his eyes. "You're a fucking programmer; you work eight to six Monday to Friday. You have more than enough time to go to the gym."

"Well then what's your excuse?" the other Texan demanded flatly.

Piercing green-gray eyes locked on the deeply tanned man. "I work eighty hours a week, asshole. No weekends, just sixteen hours a fucking day. Do you actually think I'm going to go to the gym on the weekend when all I want to do is sleep? _Do _you? You are fucked in the head, broski. Fucked in the head. I thought I was the one that got hit with the crowbar when I was twenty, not you."

Blatantly ignoring the tinier man, Allan turned back to the other men listening in on their conversation with a rapt fascination. "So, yeah. I warped their radio system's wiring, fucked around with the frequency and transmitter, and voila - it'll pick up music within a ten mile radius of that one particular radio downstairs."

Arthur looked to Alfred and Alfred looked to Chris. The other lawyer just looked back at him and it was Arthur that broke the confounded silence of the three _rational _men of the group.

"I would hate to see what you would be capable of should you use your technological capabilities for something other than good and simple amusement," the Briton said dryly.

At this, Chris cracked a rare smile. "You should have seen what he did to the Harvard's website when he got in shit with the Dean for doing something or other that was prohibited by campus authorities."

"Not safe for work furries _everywhere_," Jeff said with an appraising look on his face. He gave Allan a firm pat on the shoulder like a father would when proud of his son before looking at his iPod for a brief moment.

Calloway gave a shrug of cool indifference. "I have the maturity of a ten-year-old," he said smoothly, "and the skills to handle a computer like Alfred here handles the ladies. And men, apparently. But all the same - it all ends up meaning I'm a force to be reckoned with when you give me a computer, internet access and a keyboard."

Kirkland made a choked noise while Alfred felt his face catch fire. The American was glad that he was friends with guys that were fairly open-minded (well, one had to be _very _open-minded when Jeff Wills entered the equation). If they weren't, he would be friendless already with the exception of Arthur and, of course, Matthew.

He'd get around to telling his co-workers later because, frankly, his personal life wasn't something they needed to be acutely aware of.

(With the exception of Audrey, for the simple fact she could be such a mother bear at times.)

And the moment Jeff and Allan started dancing on their treadmills, spontaneously switching from their lazy walk to full-out strutting, twisting and shimmying on the treadmills, Alfred immediately tuned to two individuals out. The other two men with him apparently didn't have the same ability, for they had both slowed to a walk that was more of a zombie gait and stared at them with slack jaws as 'Here It Goes Again' played over the radio, cutting some other Top 40 hit in two in order to be played.

This was the song they had been waiting for, obviously. A glance to his cell phone told him it was 9:38; a minute after their designated time to dance.

Everyone needed a designated time to dance though because something like that would probably make the day bearable.

However there was one flaw in their plan: they didn't know the exact choreography to the song. While they had some of it right - mainly the exceedingly arrogant strutting along the treadmill, and the fact that they had impulsively mastered the art of hopping back and forth between machines while turning _without _falling - the rest of it was totally incorrect.

Funny, but wrong. And the New Yorker felt like being an asshole.

"You're doing the dance wrong," Alfred pointed out dryly. "You're simply flailing around like drunken idiot-"

His flat words were greeted with a water bottle grazing past his right ear and slamming into the wall just behind him. Blue eyes went wide and he absentmindedly pinched at his earlobe, where he had felt the plastic Aquafina bottle breeze past, looking over his shoulder to where the bottle had made contact: there was a dent in the plaster, and some of it had sprinkled down onto the floor.

As the two men continued to dance, earning the attention (and some very amused and/or annoyed looks) of various gym-goers, Alfred found himself now unable to tear his eyes away from them.

_There go two brave men_, a little voice in the back of his head said. _Throwing any and all self-respect down the drain. But, then again, they'd need to have that - along with social inhibitions - to worry about that sort of thing._

Watching them, dancing to the song that was almost over, he couldn't help but wonder how they had done it; how they had spent so long living in New York without ending up jaded. Maybe they imported their water from Poland or Sweden, or maybe they had humidifiers that came from another planet altogether.

Or maybe they came from another planet.

That would explain everything to a T.

But, Allan and Jeff had to be the happiest-go-luckiest guys he had ever had the privilege - or misfortune for it all depended on one's perspective - of knowing. They were like the anti-thesis to negativity; it was rare to see either one of them in a sour mood or without a smile on their face.

There must have been some sort of art to it, this being happy all the time business; especially for Jeff who looked like he was in need of a good night's sleep given the eighty-hour work weeks he pulled. Eternal optimists. That was it.

Maybe they practiced Feng Shui, or Tai Chi or something Asian like that.

Who knew?

Silence filled the gym as the song ended, and then it was back to playing the music it had been before they had intercepted the frequency lines. To their surprise, Arthur started clapping as he walked, shaking his head slowly with a look of pure amazement on his face.

"Alfred, I will give you credit for this," he said. "You really have some batshit relationships, you know that? These … guys; Matthew. You _really _know how to pick them."

Not sure if it was meant to be a compliment or an insult, he just nodded, watching his two friends with a spellbound air to him.

Saying he knew how to pick them was an understatement; a boring person would be no good around him for the simple fact he would more than likely fall asleep. Which would be rude. And shit.

"Hey, Al, how long have you and Ice Queen been dating?" Jeff demanded suddenly. Previously pale cheeks were flushed and he was panting from the sudden exertion.

Flushing and hesitant to answer because, considering the person asking the question, it had the potential to either plummet downwards or just go straight onwards for some smooth sailing. Deciding to take a chance, he bit his lip before answering. "Just a little over a month now. Why?"

The smirk Jeff wore was a sly, devious one, and instantly he regretted acknowledging the question, let alone answering it. "A month already, huh?" he said pleasantly. "That's pretty good."

Glancing down at the rubber track of the treadmill as he started running again, increasing the speed on the exercise machine, he considered stopping to fix his loosening shoe lace. But he decided against it and kept running all the same. "Yeah, it is pretty good, actually," he said with a tiny smile forming. "It's kind of amazing." From the corner of his eye, he saw the smile on his brother's face, as well as the tiny one that flickered briefly across Chris' face.

"So, have you guys fucked yet or what?"

At that precise moment, several situation-unrelated things happened instantaneously, thus resulting in the chain of events that follows as such resulting in the imminent end of his night at the gym and what would be a night of him lying on the sofa, unable to move without crying like a baby:

1. The traitorous lace on Alfred's sneaker finally came undone and got caught in the mat of the treadmill.

2. Because of this, Alfred tripped when his foot was tugged in a way it shouldn't have been.

3. He tripped over his _other_ foot in the process and fell. When this occurred, his forehead hit the control panel of the treadmill.

4. Momentarily stunned from the blow, he lost his remaining balance and therefore, the lawyer landed flat on his face.

5. Meanwhile, the treadmill is still moving at a pace set for a run because it's happening so fast that none of his companions actually _react_.

6. His glasses then shattered as he was sent flying off the exercise machine and into the wall behind him.

7. Upon impact, there was a painful crunching sound that no one - not even Alfred - could tell if it came from the wall he had just collided with or his back. We must assume it came from his back because the wall didn't quite crack, but the plaster was dented (R.I.P poorly constructed wall of gyprock).

8. Matthew happened to send him a drunken/stoned text message at that precise moment, stating that Pandas would be the cause of World War Three and that they needed to be prepared for it.

Lying there on the floor and staring at the ceiling as the world spun in lazy, looping circles around him, Alfred didn't think of getting up and answering the text message. Mainly because his back hurt way too much to warrant any sudden movement. In fact he was quite content to stay where he was to, ignoring the panicked demands of if he was okay, or if an ambulance needed to be called because, honestly, those cuts didn't look too good and if he needed a giant chunk of ice for the massive bruise that was beginning to form on his forehead. Ignored all of the concern for he was more interested in watching the ceiling and the way it twisted and turned over and over again, like a model globe on a wobbly axis.

Waving off their evident distress with a flippant gesture, he smiled freely and sighed. "Jeff," he said cheerfully. "I'm blaming this entire incident on you, a'ight?"

A stagnant quiet followed this, and Al turned his head a little to look over at his friend. The smile had slipped from his face and there was a look of concern on his pale face. "Are you alright?" Wills asked anxiously.

"I'll b'fine when you put that extra head away," Jones grunted as he forced himself into an upright position, blinking sluggishly as he rested back against the wall he had partially destroyed and he looked around him, brow knit together as he tried to focus. Easier said than done, this readjusting one's equilibrium business. His cheeks stung from where bits of glass had bitten into his flesh upon his frames shattering and blood rolled down his cheeks in warm, itching rivulets. So much for highly durable lenses. Smearing the blood away from the initial wound and across his cheek, he gave his friends and brother a light smile. "My head's just pounding now, but I'll be fine. And, for th'record, no, Matthew and I haven't done … _anything._"

"Just curious," Jeff said with a grin, any worry from before replaced with a slight amusement. "No harm in askin', right?"

Fairly blasé to what the insurance salesman had said, he dusted the plaster from his shoulder and then with a grimace he made to stand. His back screamed its protest. Still a little woozy and off-kilter from the incident, he stood there for a moment and then sighed. Alfred found he was praying for there to be pain killers back in his bathroom because, if not, he was going to be lying on the couch for the next week or so without a back to his name.

Not like he had just gotten out of bed within the past few days or anything.

Leaning over and shutting off the treadmill, he grimaced when he pulled away. "Well that was … exciting," he said with a weak laugh, shaking his head and squinting as he looked around him. He wiped away some more blood, plucking out a piece of glass that was still pressed into one of the abraisions. A wince crossed his face.

And in all honesty, if it weren't for the dire agony his back was experiencing because of his little misadventure, he would had thought the situation to be positively hilarious. He still did, actually. A small chuckle left him and he shook his head. The spot where his head had hit the control panel of the treadmill throbbed traitorously, just like his back.

Coming to stand beside him, Arthur peered at the lawyer carefully. "Are you quite alright, Alfred?"

Waving his hand and vaguely curious about their concern, he nodded. Again with the throbbing. _Damn _he needed some painkillers, pronto. "I should be good," he said flippantly. "Everything just hurts now. S'all."

"I think I'll drive you home so that you don't strain yourself any further," the judge said with a sigh, stepping off the treadmill with a look of poorly-masked relief. The Briton was obviously pleased to jump at any chance to get out of the gym. Physical activity had never been his forté; something Al recalled easily from when they were both younger. "You're going to be plastered to your sofa for the next few days; you better hope Matthew loves you enough to take care of you, Idiot."

Being called idiot suddenly felt very endearing, and he wondered if he had done more damage to his cranium than he initially thought.

Pausing and giving it some thought, he huffed. "You're probably right," he muttered, grabbing the bottle of water he had and his cellphone. When he glanced at it and read the message from Matthew - the one about pandas, World War III and how they would be the cause of it - he groaned aloud and shook his head.

Snatching the phone from his hand, Chris looked to the message that was there and then looked back up at the other lawyer with a bemused looked. "Does he usually send texts like these?" he inquired, passing the phone back to Al only to be intercepted by Allan who then passed it to Jeff with a laugh. Nothing was private these days.

"Nah, only if he's been drinking," Alfred verified. "Or if he's stoned. Which he's more than likely currently _both._"

"That young man is a morbidly fascinating individual," Chris surmised easily, watching as the phone was passed from voyeur to owner.

Alfred just smiled a soft, giddy smile based upon the fact that that morbidly fascinating individual was _his _morbidly fascinating individual.

The temporary district attorney caught the smile, read it easier than a book and he smiled a little as well; the expression was out of place on his usually stony, bland face. His lips were crooked as though he was not practiced in that area, one corner pulled up a little further than the other and giving the smile the appearance of a smirk to be precise, but there was a genuine effort there at an attempt of showing happiness for the lawyer he supposedly hated.

A gesture as unexpected as that caused his smile to broaden only that much more and he chuckled lightly, uncapping his water and staring at it for a moment.

'_Love makes you fatuous, Alfred,_' his brother had told him no later than the day before the last, when he had been out trying to find something for Matthew for his birthday. That was when he had found the Gunslinger series. '_It makes you stupid, and you smile quite a bit more than you usually do. Stupid looks good on you._'

Glancing back to the text, he couldn't help but finally agree with his brother.

Whatever the fuck 'fatuous' meant was beyond him, but he agreed all the same.

Fucker using big words he didn't know.


	25. Chapter 25

**CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.**

"Well, you _have _put twelve pounds back on, so I suppose that's a good thing."

A look of relief crossed his patient's face, but it was a fleeting emotion for McKnight hardened his gaze as he stared at the young man whilst he stepped down from the weigh scale.

"But it's still not _enough_," he stressed, gesturing for Matthew to follow as they left one of his offices - the smaller one adjacent to his main one. The tiny, dimly lit room where he kept files upon files pertaining to former patients, as well as instruments to keep track of their physical health. It smelt like an old library might with a hint of lemon-scented polish. "You're back to where you were during the New Year, and I don't like that; you're still a good twenty-five pounds underweight."

Matthew visibly swallowed and nodded, looking away and chewing on the corner of his lower lip. His eyes were downcast, and the two men sighed in unison.

"For now, it's all we can do," said the psychiatrist lowly. "I trust you'll eat properly and gain the weight in a healthy way. Put more grains - bread, pasta, whatever you can - into your diet, as well as well as whole dairy products and such. Get more protein as well." There was a pause. "Maybe I should set you up with a dietician."

An offended look crossed the Canadian's face and McKnight couldn't help but chuckle a little as they wandered back into his office. The hall was silent and there wasn't another person in sight. That was typical for eleven in the morning on any day of the week. "Oh yes, heaven forbid if I tell you to see someone else," he snorted. "I'll see what I can put together for you." He flicked the lights on in his office; it was just as dim in there.

"It's not _that_," Matthew said with a light sigh as he crashed down into a chair - all 142lbs of him - and tucked his legs beneath him, running a hand through his hair, "I just don't want to have to see anyone else; I mean, it took me long enough to trust you and even just get used to you. Like, I'm not as much of a nutcase about it now as what I was the but the thought of being put with someone else makes me stomach sick and then I find it hard to breathe. Then everything just spirals from there and then the next thing you know it's panic attack central."

Shutting the door behind him and hanging up his suit jacket on the rack, McKnight sighed. It was nice to come into a cool office; the majority of the sunlight was being kept out of the space by thick curtains and subsequently along with the warmth it would have generated. The psychiatrist went over to his desk and propped a hip on the corner. He grimaced as the wood creaked despite its thickness. "Your anxiety will never leave you," he said. "It's something we can treat, but not something we can get rid of.

"It's the same with your depression," he continued, moving to sit at his desk instead of on it. "They're both linked as a mild form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and it can resurface at any time; I've seen it happen before, both with former patients and you, too. Given everything that happened, this is what it has left you with. I'm going to be blunt about it - mentally, you got off fairly easy compared to some long-term cases I've seen; a part of your depression was also situational, as well as what stemmed from your earlier life and things related to that because you have a penchant for dwelling on things and over-analyzing. But for the most part, it had to do with your living conditions, the lack of time to yourself, lack of communication with the so-called 'outside world', being unable to properly take care of your physical health, and not being able to eat or sleep. Life situations and living conditions that deteriorate at a steady pace can pry open old wounds and create depression and cause it to fester, subsequently warping in into a fully-blown depressive state of mind. Am I correct?"

Matthew slowly nodded his agreement; Ian knew the man well enough to know that he did indeed comprehend what he was talking about and was not simply nodding for the sake of nodding. He knew him well enough to say that, if he didn't agree or did not understand him he would voice his opinion. And he had every right to be heard.

"But," McKnight continued, "You're also a trigger depressive, which you already know as well. A situation that creates the slightest sense of déjà-vu will do it for you; take what happened a month or so ago as a prime example. When you came to see me at my place towards the end of May, you told me you felt as though you had fallen back into 'the same old, same old'. Being alone, something you're not as used to anymore, placed on top of that feeling of repetitiveness you used to deal with, was a trigger for you. You were at the lowest point I've seen you at since the end of November, beginning of December. You weren't sleeping, you definitely weren't eating, and your train of thought was so incoherent that you actually went as far as taking leave from work.

"Thankfully enough, that didn't present too much of a setback, and you _appear _to be somewhat stable again. You've gotten better at dragging yourself out of the hole you manage to dig down into, which I'm very proud of."

A smile formed on the other's face and he nodded, looking down to his lap. At this the man sat back and turned to a fresh page in the book he had produced, clicking the top of his pen to bring the nub down and scribble something new. The date, and the new medication he was going to be put on.

Despite knowing his distaste for pills, McKnight knew he couldn't function properly without them - he might float somewhere around fifty percent functionality, but otherwise he would not be the greatest person to deal with. He would be jittery; agitated. These were things he had already seen in him when he wasn't on medication. It was something they had tried a year ago. Taken off of his medications for a month and within two weeks he was after slipping again. It wasn't something he wanted to risk, not when after a month ago or so he had shown that his depression was still prevalent when provoked.

"In any case, I'm taking you off the Valium altogether because I'm going to put you on a medication that'll take care of both your anxiety and any potential depression."

The Canadian hesitated before accepting. "I didn't think Valium was that strong though," he said quietly, shifting in his chair and leaning forward. He licked his lips nervously. "And I also thought that it helped combat depression symptoms as well?"

"You're correct to an extent," McKnight admitted, "but I consider Valium a pill for high-anxiety cases. It doesn't actually do that much in terms of depression. And because Zoloft is a bit easier on the system and it's safe to pair with Valium, I prescribed those two together in hopes they would be far more effective against the symptoms you were displaying. You could say I was experimenting with it."

Watching as the Canadian thought it over - he could see a sharp, calculating look in his eyes, one that did not escape him as being that same look he had seen in his eyes when they had first met - McKnight stood and migrated over to a small table in the corner of the room. A coffee maker was situated there, as well as a few porcelain mugs that had plants growing in them. It was one of those warm beverages he kept on hand in his office at all times. There was a container of hot chocolate and a box of tea bags as well, but he found he went through his stash of Joe a little faster. Opening up the doors beneath the maker, he grabbed two mugs and set them down on the polished surface beside the brewer as he checked the water levels - still good, which meant they could have something to drink.

"I don't know," he said finally, voice whispery. McKnight glanced over with a light hum, arching an eyebrow. The young man was looking elsewhere; perhaps at the bookshelf, as he usually did. Subtly following his line of vision as he made to turn back to his coffee maker, he saw that he was correct.

"Well, I can't force new pills on you," Ian said with a sigh. "But as I said, the Valium in your case is exclusively for your anxiety. That alone isn't good enough; you need something that will help stave off both anxiety _and _possible bouts with depression. I really think you should try them and see how they work out for you."

At this, he seemed to deflate a little, a pained look on his face as he continued to evade his psychiatrist's gaze. Though when he spoke, nothing in his voice gave off any possible emotion. He was vapid sounding; animatronic. "What is it you want to put me on? It better not be Effexor; you promised you would never put me back on that again, no matter how bad I got."

"No, no. _Christ_ no. No Effexor for you. Just a 40mg dosage of Cymbalta; it's one of the recommended starting doses for Generalized Anxiety Disorder, but it's also a dose indicated for someone with depression," he explained, making his way back over to his desk and easing himself down into his plush chair. It was a wonder his bones hadn't started to creak yet with age setting in. "So, I figured, it's like this: I want to see if it'll work on both your depression and anxiety. If it does, then that's wonderful and I'll keep you on it, providing there aren't any major side effects that last too long. If it doesn't, then well, I'll work on finding something else for you."

"Cymbalta … that's the one they have commercials for on the television every now and again, right?" A look that was unreadable flickered across his face.

McKnight nodded. "You're right there. It's a fairly mainstream anti-depressant and anxiety medication."

"That shit can fuck with your liver, man. Have you read up on the slew of potentially fatal side effects that come with it? Do not want. Do. Not. _Want._"

Laughing, McKnight shook his head. "I rue the day you got the internet, boy."

Although he had hoped that would rouse even a small chuckle from the Canadian, it did not and the smile on his face faltered. The young man seemed distracted as he stared at the book case. It was something McKnight didn't quite understand; why did he, when he tried to be evasive, always choose the bookcase to look at? Was it the positioning he was looking at? Was he analyzing the size and shape of it, the distance of the shelves? Or was it the book he was looking at, scanning the titles and reading them, committing them to his nearly flawless memory? He was certain that if he were to ask him to name off each book on the shelf without looking to it for a hint, he would be able to do so with no problem.

"What is it?" McKnight asked with a slight frown, leaning forward on his elbows. "What's bothering you?"

"I just don't want to deal with side effects again," Matt said with a sigh, head flopping back as he stared up at the ceiling with a vacant expression. He was after forcing his emotions beneath the surface again, something his doctor didn't quite like. It worried him over just how easily he seemed to be able to do that. "I've been like it since I was a kid; even cold medicine gave me side effects. Pills though, they're the worst. Side effects for two weeks before I can properly function."

Deflating a little, he stood and grabbed the coffee maker, pouring themselves a cup each. He stirred some cream and two packets of sugar into Matthew's, and just sugar into his own. "I know, Matthew, trust me. I know," he said as he sat down again, handing the cup to him. It was taken with a nod of gratitude. "But, it'll take care of symptoms of both your depression and anxiety, it's proven to work, and honestly, it's not as expensive as the Valium you've been taking."

He seemed to perk up a little at this and then he shrugged. "Money's not as much of an issue anymore," he said quietly, blowing on the creamy liquid before taking a tentative sip. He smiled a little, but McKnight was unsure if it was over the taste or what he had said. "I mean, it's still tight sometimes with buying groceries and paying rent on what I make at the grocery store given I don't work at the bakery anymore, but it's not nearly as bad as what it was."

"At least you have the money to buy decent food," McKnight commented, sipping on his own sweet black water.

A chuckle left the young man. "It's always a bonus." He paused for a moment, staring at the coffee before he sighed and slumped back. "If you want to put me on Cymbalta, then go ahead. Maybe it won't be too bad on me."

"One thing I have to warn you about is the fact that one of the side effects is weight loss and a change in eating habits." It slipped out before he even had a chance to register speaking and he felt guilty when Matthew flinched. "The moment you find you're beginning to lose weight or not wanting to eat, come to me about it, alright? I don't want you dropping below the point you're already at now."

Sighing, Matthew nodded. "No problem," he hummed. "Small question: why is it so hard for me to keep weight on? I've never had this problem before."

McKnight adjusted his glasses. "There are many factors: you have a high metabolism and you're still somewhat active. Weight loss can also be idiopathic, which is what I think it might be in your case. This is why you need to eat whenever you have the time. Hell, it might just be a phase your body is going through because those happen, too."

"Now you sound like my mother," Matt grumbled, rolling his eyes before taking another mouthful of his coffee. "I'm pretty sure she thought my dating men was just a phase, too."

"Oh, Matthew, there's nothing wrong with dating men," he chuckled, sipping his coffee after blowing on it. A crooked grin was sent his way. "Sure, I could never fathom it for myself for the simple fact that, well, _ouch _and, in my opinion, an erect penis does not belong in that general vicinity_._ The rectum is an easily wounded area, highly sensitive and honestly, at my age, having discomfort while sitting down wouldn't be good for my body. That and I've already had my mid-life crisis. I bought a red Jag, kept it for a few months and then sold it again. I don't think Peggy would approve of me bending over and taking it, as you would eloquently put it."

"Hey man, it's not that bad," laughed the artist. His eyes were alight with amusement and even McKnight was grinning and wondering about just how their discussion of his medications, weight and the side-effects had taken a turn for the homoerotic. "Sure it _hurts _and all if you're not, like, _ready_ for it but it's not _that _bad. Everyone makes it out to be this ass-busting business, even though that's not what it's like at all. It's nothing to cry over, either. Frankly, I think it feels pretty good at firs-"

"So, about getting you your medication we should do that at the end of this session, right? Right. Of course I'm right; I'm always right."

Laughter followed this and Matthew's cheeks were flushed bright pink with mirth. Sure, this was a therapy session and all, therefore they were supposed to discuss things relevant to his mental state - not his sex life. The kid was too much of a free spirit to keep to one serious topic when he was feeling good.

That was one thing he had remembered from when he and Matthew had first started their therapy sessions - they were mainly casual discussions, the young man finding it as a way to get caught up on the world around him, a world he had lost and then gotten shoved back into, head-first. There had been nothing about who he was, where he was from, what was wrong and how he could try and be fixed, or so to speak. They just … _talked_. About anything and everything, except for something that could have turned to a dialogue about him. So they talked about things that were happening in the world; they talked about pop culture. Art, politics and math were his favourite topics of discussion, he had learned. On occasion they ventured from his office and headed to the library, and he would observe the Canadian as he hesitantly made his way through the rows upon rows of books, fingers trailing along the metal and wooden shelves. It was like he was reacquainting himself with a world he had thought he had lost.

(In a way, he was.)

One thing was prominent in his reacquaintance with the material world, and that was that he was constantly looking for something new to read. Books fascinated him - literature of all sorts. It didn't matter what it was, he would sit down and gladly read it. Texts on math, science, religion. He would read political inquiries, books about different time periods. On occasion, he would read teen literature - but only the good stuff, the stuff that created a lasting impact. He would read classical literature like Dickens and Austen, but he loved horror and the macabre - he essentially worshiped the words King, Koontz and Thrasher. Not to mention he had a soft spot for John Grisham and Margaret Atwood. And as much as he loved Sylvia Plath, he could no longer read her works for the risk of spiralling downwards against his better judgement. It was just some instantaneous reaction he had to reading what she wrote.

It had been an amazing process, watching life return to him when he had spent the first two or three months living like the walking dead. He had no hope or care for the future, and honestly the psychiatrist knew that the youth thought the world would be better off if he were not there to experience it (a few attempted suicides scattered here and there seemed to prove this perverse desire). There was a sort of momentum taking place that he needed to continue as to ascertain that he wouldn't slip while he was dragging himself out of the hole he had come from. So, on his days off when he didn't have any patients to see, he would take the then nineteen-year-old Matthew Williams to book stores and coffee shops, university libraries and even art galleries. They would walk through Manhattan; they would go to museums. He took him to see a Broadway show or two each season, and they went to see a movie at the cinema every Friday night. That had been when he lived with Ian and his quixotic little wife, without a penny to his name.

And then slowly but surely, Matthew had started to open up to him. He learned that he was no more than nineteen, that he had graduated with top academic honours from a private catholic school in Brooklyn, had been accepted to both Harvard and the School of Visual Arts. He learnt that when he was no more than sixteen going on seventeen that he had watched his mother slowly die from a leukemia that had gone unnoticed for too long, watched as the medicines she took to make her better made her worse. Those first few sessions where he learned those things about the Canadian had left him mentally exhausted more than a sitting with any other patient he had worked with. He had dealt with attempted-suicide victims before; he had worked with the homeless and some people that were morally depraved.

Something that had come with listening to the brutally honest opinions and thoughts of his nineteen-year-old client had left him dropping by the end of the day, feeling as though he, were slipping downwards, too. Maybe it was because he could not grasp the concept of someone as young and promising as he having gone through his teenage years the way he had. With the life experiences of someone in their late forties under his belt, he knew Matthew wouldn't function the same way as a young adult. He wouldn't view partying the same way; wouldn't view education or relationships the same way because he would always be on his guard, and looking to the what-ifs of it. And it just made him feel so physically tired and sick.

(There were times McKnight wondered if he should consider getting a therapist for himself as the problems of everyone else just started to weigh on him. He was human too, after all.)

Pulling open a drawer, McKnight removed a pad that would allot a prescription for the Canadian. Once he had that scribbled down, he tossed the papers into the drawer and then removed a different one. On this one he wrote the same message over and over again, twelve times. He handed these over to him and grinned.

"Twelve get out of work free cards," said the man. "So, considering you'll probably work around ten or eleven shifts within the next two weeks, I figured that'll give you adequate time to get adjusted and should you need any notes for being off sick, there's your personal caché!"

"Holy crap," Matthew muttered, studying the notes. They all said the same thing, that generic 'so-and-so has been excused for work for the following time period due to a bodily adjustment to required medications' blah de blah blah. "I'd like to see Sadiq say shit about one of these."

This caught his psychiatrist's attention. "Sadiq?" he inquired. "That's not a name I'm overly familiar with. Enlighten me?"

Williams shook his head slowly. "He's the new grocery manager. We've had him for about, what, five months now? Four? Anyway, long story short: he's an asshole. You know how Leonardo DiCaprio is king of the world? Yeah well, this fucker is the king of the assholes."

"How so?" McKnight asked, setting down his empty mug and contemplating going and getting another - which would be his third coffee for the day and it was only noon.

Mentally grappling with the right words to use - he could see it in the way his eyes dulled and crinkled at the corners - the shrink sat back and patiently waited. It unsettled him, just how adjusted he was to the young man's thought process.

"He … he's just not very nice," he mumbled finally, crossing his arms over his torso and huffing slightly. "And I'm getting fed up with him harassing me. Where I was out sick a little while ago because of how I was just so unhappy, he's been breathing down my neck since. I mean, he doesn't know the _exact _reason why I was out, but he's constantly telling me that I have no backbone, that I'm pathetic and a wimp. He's been giving me all the shit work that we don't even saddle on the new guys just to see if they're worth keeping around, he has me doing work I'm not cut out to be doing. Lifting boxes that weigh almost as much as I do, dragging pallets from one side of the warehouse to the other only to be told that 'no, that's fine, you didn't have to move that one after all'. He keeps dumping maintenance work on me that we're supposed to leave for the _actual maintenance people._ He doesn't let me take a break when I need to and I swear to God if he makes one more crack about my sexuality and tells me I look like a girl, I'm going to _murder_ him."

And from the look he wore, Ian McKnight realized Matthew was telling the truth and he didn't know if he could afford to bail the Canadian out for murder. A minor felony such as holding up a corner store wasn't as bad. He had bailed him out for that with little to no complications, just a pile of paperwork and a dent to his savings account.

But murder? Peggy mightn't approve of bailing him out for something like that, and the last thing he wanted him to do was go on trial and more than likely get convicted for murder because that asshole of a district attorney knew what he was doing a little too well.

"Do you think you could start looking around for a new job?" the doctor pressed. "I'd say ride it out, just to see how it goes, but if he's harassing you over the fact that you're more interested in men than women then I can honestly say that I don't know if it's worth you staying there any longer."

"Maybe I'll kill him just to feel a little bit better about myself," he said with a distracted jerk of the head. "And I don't know where he's getting his information regarding my sexuality, considering Al and I get groceries somewhere else."

Words on the end of his tongue died and McKnight stared at Matthew for a long moment. "_What_? Who? Details, please and thank you."

Pale cheeks flushed and Matthew squirmed. "Uh, well, I …" he laughed weakly and scratched at his throat. "Al is my boyfriend."

Brown eyes went wide. "Really now?" he spluttered. "When did _that _happen?"

"A-A little over a month ago," stammered the artist, cheeks getting progressively darker. "I asked him to go out with me on, like, the last day of May?"

"I'm glad to hear that," said Ian with a light smile. He thought it was amusing, just how bashful his pseudo-son was all of a sudden. "What's his last name?"

"Jones," Matthew chirped. "You know, Alfred. I've told you about him a few times."

"Alfred Jones."

"Yeah."

"Manhattan's DA."

"… Yup."

"The lawyer Alfred. _That _Alfred Jones."

"Y-Yeah?"

All McKnight could do was stare long and hard at his patient, just wondering where his intelligence had gone. "I understand that you are … friends with the man," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But what the hell has possessed you to put yourself in a relationship with a man that has such a volatile personality?"

Looking away, the Canadian sighed. "You've never met him, so you're being a little too quick to judge," he said softly. His gaze had once more returned to the bookshelf_. _"You can't base an opinion on rumours surrounding a person or little snippets of their existence that you've happened upon; I thought the same way when I first met him. Oh, he's an asshole. Oh, he's rich and pretentious and he doesn't do any good with his money. Oh, he's just the DA for all the photo ops.

"But that's not the case. For one, he's the loneliest guy I've ever met and was in desperate need of a friend he could trust. And he loves his job - all he wants to do, and he told me this, is help people. He volunteers practically every day of the week with the hospital, the homeless shelter, OXFAM and he's taken up reading to kids at the library on Friday afternoons. He works a good ten hours a day or more, coming up with programs to help prevent crime and keep drugs out of the hands of kids and adults. He cries over Disney movies even though he's adamant in telling me he doesn't and he has this way of making you look at yourself and wonder 'why haven't I even tried to do something for someone other than myself?'. I don't know anyone who has been so goddamn persistent in trying to form even just a friendship with me, and he put himself through hell and back. For me. Something no one has ever done," Matthew murmured, still looking at the bookshelf, eyes glazed over and he very clearly was somewhere else. "Even though he could have said 'fuck your noise, Matthew Williams' and he could have had nothing to do with me for the rest of his life, he didn't. Instead he put himself through complete and utter hell just so he could be with me. No one has ever done that, and I don't know what kind of person I would be now if I hadn't given him the benefit of doubt back in December."

And then there was silence, McKnight startled by the stream of dialogue that had suddenly spilled forth from the artist. Matthew just seemed exhausted and he cradled his head in his hands, breathing slowly.

Pure, fragile silence and Ian McKnight found himself at a loss for words.

Several times he tried to speak, but found that the words he needed to use eluded him. So he went for simplicity; for getting the point across in one sentence. "You actually _love_ him, don't you?" asked his doctor in a hushed voice. He had never heard something so emotionally driven come from the artist before; at least not in a way that pertained to something other than his art.

At first he didn't receive a response, but then Matthew nodded, sitting back. His eyes were clear but lost, and then he looked directly to Ian. He smiled. "Yeah, I do."

"Does he know?" McKnight asked.

Pausing, Matthew nodded. "I'm pretty sure he does," he hummed, "even though I've never actually said it to him. And I know he loves me, even though _he's _never said it to me. It's just a mutual understanding. That, and I still feel like it's too early to actually say something as … as _meaningful _and important as 'I love you', you know what I mean?"

Nodding somewhat distractedly, McKnight contemplated what he had been told. Sure, that was all Matthew's perspective of the man he was dating. It was meant to be biased in a way, but he knew damn well that he was the kind of person that, if he had formed an opinion on someone and had them held up as high as that when considering the fact he had come from the polar opposite end of the spectrum of feelings for the guy, that it had to mean something. He couldn't help but wonder if he was right. And although he found it hard to fathom that a man with as much political and judicial sway as Alfred could feel loneliness, who was he to judge? He had seen men of his type - men who sat at the top but sat at the bottom at the same time. Some of those men had been his patients.

"The main thing is whether or not you're happy," Doctor McKnight noted, standing as he gave in to the urge to get another cup of coffee. He grabbed Matthew's mug so he could get him another one, as well. "And tell me: are you happy? Truly, genuinely, honest-to-God happy with where you are in your relationship with him? Happy because of the fact that you're in a relationship at all?"

"I feel the best I have since before my mother died, if that accounts for anything," he replied quietly. "And he makes me feel like I'm actually good for something, other than being Karma's punching bag."

Smiling at the phrasing, McKnight poured two more coffees, emptying the brewer of its contents. Stirring them, he hummed quietly to himself.

The happiness felt by the Canadian was obvious; he had seen it when he had first arrived. He walked with his shoulders back and his head up; there was a little more confidence in his step than usual. And he had been smiling in that crooked way of his as he sent a text message before pocketing his phone.

Maybe he was telling the truth and maybe he really was happy.

"Karma likes having a punching bag," he commented idly as he went to sit down beside Matthew instead of across from him. "But I'm glad you're not the sucker this time around."

Laughing, the artist accepted the second mug of coffee and took a sip, sighing with content. "Being karma's favourite punching bag blows," he said, propping the tips of his sneakers on the edge of the large oak desk. Instead of the beaten red converse he usually wore, ones he had bought from either a Good Will or a Salvation Army, he wore a pair of black high-tops. They were clean and in fairly good condition. "Someone has to be, though, so I guess I'll just wait my t-"

He stopped mid-sentence when his phone rang, nearly jumping a foot out of his seat. "I keep forgetting about this goddamn piece of shit," he spat bitterly, fishing it out of his sweater's pocket and, with an apologetic look to McKnight (not that it mattered, considering their session had, by rights, finished up almost five minutes ago), he answered the call with a huffed 'what is it, Al?'

There was a pause, the Canadian laughed and Ian McKnight kind of wanted to know what the joke was.

"Don't be so impatient," he said. "I'll be out in a little bit; whatever it is can wait a few more minutes, right? Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Princess. I'll see you in a few."

Dropping the phone into his lap he groaned, draining back the half cup of coffee in several swift gulps before setting it down, going red at the laughter that followed from his doctor.

"Someone has his panties in a bunch because he's incapable of telling the time and showed up almost fifteen minutes early for me," Matt quipped, shaking his head ruefully.

Ian chuckled, finishing his coffee and setting it down on his desk alongside the green porcelain one. "We might as well get you down to the pharmacy to get your new pills so you can go on your merry little way for the day," he hummed, grabbing the prescription from the desk as he followed the younger man out the door.

Silence formed between them as they headed down the hall, Matthew walking a step or two behind his psychiatrist and McKnight, mildly distracted by his electronic planner, jotted down some notes and glanced to the calendar. Their next session was a month away, but he needed to see him within the next few weeks to make sure he was adjusting to his medications.

"How about," he said suddenly, glancing over his shoulder, "we schedule your next appointment for two weeks from Tuesday; that'll give you a while on the medication and we'll be able to decide then if it's worth keeping. Does that sound alright to you?"

"Yeah, it sounds good." Williams was looking out the windows as he walked, squinting a little at the sunlight that filtered in through slightly tinted windows.

It was still early, maybe a little past noon, and already the sun was almost at its peak for the day; New York was already buzzing with activity and he was thankful for the soundproofing of the building because, otherwise, the sound of honking horns would have sullied the hefty silence that usually filled this particular floor. It was the downfall of being in a hospital in such a busy area - they were centered right in the middle of the business district (one of the psychiatrists on his floor, a cynic by nature, liked to joke that the hospital was there for the simple fact that the office people that tried to commit suicide on a Monday would be able to get there a little bit faster for that very reason and they might have a little less success). Despite the soundproofing of the building, the particular floor they were on was fairly quiet by circumstance and the only people currently there with them was two other doctors, sitting down on a bench and chatting. The two men looked up and greeted the older psychiatrist with grins and a nod of the head, and McKnight nodded to them in return before turning his gaze forward again.

Yes, this floor was perhaps the quietest one in the hospital; it was mainly filled with offices. There were no patients going from room to room, no crying babies because there was no maternity ward. No distraught family members, no rushing here and there.

None of that, just offices for doctors and a few storage rooms.

He remembered when they had offered him an office on the main floor for some reason or another. An office near the Intensive Care Unit, and right next to the Emergency entrance.

He had considered it for a moment. Then he had nearly busted an internal organ or two laughing before promptly turning and saying that they could find him in his office on the fifth floor if they really needed him.

As they got into the elevator, went down the five floors, the doctor was still busying himself with adding dates to his planner and rearranging his notes and, of course, checking his email because apparently he could pick up Wi-Fi in a hospital now? He didn't even realize the elevator had stopped until there was a gentle tug on the edge of his shirt. Glancing up, startled, he saw the wry look on his patient's face (honestly, even though he was twenty-two now, there were times when McKnight considered saying the hell with it all and just adopting him for the sake of being able to say 'this is my son, Matthew' instead of 'this is my patient, Matthew').

"You can get internet access here?" the artist asked, visibly surprised by this.

McKnight nodded. "Believe it or not," he murmured distractedly as they stepped out of the elevator and into the main lobby of the hospital. "And it's not like there are just certain pockets of activity, it doesn't matter what floor you're on. You can connect and it's all high-speed connections."

The world was starting to advance a little too quickly for his tastes, and for his age.

"Wouldn't that interfere with the machinery working?"

"You think it would," Ian commented. "Luck is on our side, I suppose."

Matthew just hummed his agreement, an apprehensive look crossing his face as they neared the pharmacy. Patting his shoulder in an attempt at comforting him, the doctor sighed heavily.

"Want me to get the medication for you and you wait out here?" McKnight inquired, pausing mid-step to look down at the other.

He seemed to consider this, pursing his lips and rocking back and forth on his heels for a moment. Then: "Yeah, you might as well."

Chuckling, he left the young man sitting on a bench as he went to go and get his new set of pills. He chatted with the pharmacist, a pretty young woman from the Bronx, about the weather and how nice it was they had air condition on the day that was in the high nineties. She agreed, smiled and asked how his wife was making out with her arthritis medication and that was how their conversation went every day that he happened to see her. It was just one of those constant things in his life that presented a sense of normalcy when he experienced so little of it in the run of a day.

Sometimes he wondered if that was the same way his patients felt when they were on their medications; he wondered if they longed for that moment where something clicked in a way it hadn't in years. He couldn't help but wonder if it came with that sort of moment that was almost like an epiphany.

Bidding her a good day and hopefully an easy shift, he slipped the medications into the small plastic bag he had been provided by the pharmacist as he left the in-hospital drug store. McKnight paused before approaching the Canadian. He wasn't alone anymore; there was a man seated next to him. The guy was taller than him, heavier set with broad shoulders and lightly muscled arms. He was wearing a pair of gray cargo shorts and a black Batman t-shirt, and there was a pair of aviator sunglasses perched on the top of his head. Lounging casually next to his patient, his long legs were stretched out in front of him and he had his arms splayed out along the back of the seats. One arm was wrapped around him casually and he had a hand placed on his shoulder, his thumb moving in steady circular motions. There was a light smile on his face, as well as on Mattie's.

And then he realized that this was Alfred F. Jones, Manhattan's DA and Matthew's boyfriend.

His eyes narrowed, but when the man looked up and gave him a small, crooked grin, he immediately replaced the expression with something a bit politer with just a hint of mild indifference. There was no need to come off as overly aggressive just yet.

(_Enter the overprotective parent, something he hadn't had to be, or felt the urge to be, in a long while_.)

Approaching them slowly, he tried to keep the frown from his face but found it was a lot harder to do than he thought. "Here you go," he said, passing the bag over.

It was accepted with a low groan of displeasure, but he was thanked all the same for it. "Just what I need," he muttered in a contrite-sounding voice that made both men laugh. "_More_ medication."

Alfred gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Well, it's not the end of the world, right?" On the other hand, Williams just stared at him with a blank expression and the lawyer cringed. "Okay, so maybe it feels like it is."

The artist just laughed and shook his head, a tiny smile tweaking his lips upward at the corners. "Well, it could be worse," McKnight interjected. "I could have put you back on Effexor, or I could have made you go back on the Zoloft and kept you on the Valium, right?"

Screwing up his nose, Matthew gave him a look of disgust and all the doctor could do was laugh, one hand resting on his side. "You know how I feel about that crap," he scolded, coming to stand. "But Cymbalta shouldn't be too awful. I'm telling you this now though, if my liver ends up being pickled and my skins starts turning yellow, that's the end of it. I'll eat toddlers alive before I take another goddamn pill."

"It'll take a lot longer than two weeks for your liver to deteriorate, m'boy," he chided with a smile, shaking his head. "You're just being paranoid and overly delusional. Then again, this is you we're talking about. Don't deny that you have a penchant for overdramatics."

Alfred laughed outright at this while Matthew flushed, scowling deeply and crossing his arms across his chest. Leaning over, the lawyer murmured something and his boyfriend snickered, shaking his head and lightly pushing his shoulder. Jones smiled lightly with a faraway look in his eyes. That was when McKnight realized he wasn't wearing any glasses as he usually did, and that there were cuts all along the top of his cheeks. Odd.

"Gimme a call later on in the week to remind me, alright?" Matthew asked with a light smile directed in the direction of the older man. "Or I'll completely forget about it."

"Not a problem." Even if Matthew hadn't asked, he would have called him up all the same; while he had an incredible memory when it came to books, film, education-related topics and music, the littlest thing like that he would forget. Honestly, if his head wasn't screwed on the way it was, he would probably lose that, too.

Before either of the men could leave - they had yet to even get up off of the _bench_ and he had already jumped on the opportunity - McKnight promptly turned to the American and narrowed his eyes. The gaze went unnoticed at first but then he caught it. At the expression, he did a double take and pulled back a little. "Y-Yeah?" Jones asked, voice quivering.

"_**You**_. My office. _Now_," he snapped. Alfred seemed to pale a shade or three beneath his dark summer tan. "You and I, Mr. Jones, have a few things to discuss, got it?"

"S-Sure?" he squeaked, clenching and unclenching his hands. He wiped his palms off on his shorts before glancing nervously to his boyfriend. In return he was given a shrug of what was equal confusion.

Ian smirked. Where had the brave, arrogant and cocky lawyer he had seen countless times on the television and read in newspaper interviews gone so fast? All that stood before him now was a frightened little man in a superhero t-shirt with his tail between his legs. A man who used the justice system to hide behind. There was nothing special about a shell of a human. Internally cringing at his cynical thoughts, McKnight gestured wordlessly for the District Attorney to follow behind him. From the corner of his eyes, he watched as the keys to his vehicle were handed to the younger man, and for a brief moment he felt his heart soften a fraction when he saw the lawyer kiss his patient on the temple, a fond smile on his face. Matthew murmured something softly, grinning and Alfred made a choked whine of dread.

More than likely he had told his partner that he was fucked.

Not waiting any longer, he pivoted on his heel and made his way out of the lobby, hands behind his back and staring straight ahead. Squeaking on clean tiling alerted him to the American jogging a little to catch up to him.

"What do you want to talk to me about?" Alfred demanded. Winter laced the edges of the words.

"You'll find out when we get to my office," snapped McKnight in an authoritative voice. "But given your _intelligence _I'm quite certain you can figure it out all on your own."

A splutter of protest and indignation was made, but after that nothing more was said between the two men as they walked down the hall. Given he was the only one that knew where they were going, McKnight lead the DA to the elevator. Jones was anxious - the emotion was practically rolling off of him. A glance back over his shoulder showed to him that his face was still pale, and his arms were folded tightly across his chest; a subconsciously defensive body position.

The ride in the elevator was taken in silence as well, McKnight choosing to stand close to the doors, staring at his reflection in the steel casing. His white dress shirt puffed out a little towards his gut where it was beginning to expand; he walked enough as it was and arthritis in his right knee ruled out running at the gym. And there was no way he was getting into yoga with his wife. That was just crazy talk. A glance to the side of his aging reflection and he saw Alfred glaring at him icily; there was a dark look on his face that was purely unreadable. But he could see the defiance in his stance - his shoulders were taut and his chin was lifted as he eyed the psychiatrist coldly. They stared at one another for a long moment and McKnight surprised himself by being the first to look away. Instead, he went back to studying his reflection, noting with disdain that he needed to get his hair trimmed again. Placing his fingers against his chin, he contemplated a beard. Maybe one of these days.

A ping sounded, the doors pulled apart and they exited the shaft without looking at the other. Ian could feel the hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end and it was not because of the increase in the force of the air conditioning on this floor. The cold look he had been given had unnerved him and had cost him a few courage points.

Maybe he had taken a few pointers from Matthew in how to attempt murder-by-staring?

Escorting the lawyer into his office, he shut the door behind them and watched with a feeling of detachment as the American studied his surroundings. He was stationary in the center of the room as he peered about with a rapt attentiveness. Blue eyes slid along the different fixtures and books and various objects in the room before they settled upon a painting. It had a solid gray background and an image that was simplistic. There was a man, or just a shadow man, standing beside a solid black circle. He was stood there calmly, the man in the painting, peering at the black circle and the two prongs that emerged from it - a ladder. The man was overlooking a hole.

"Matthew painted this, didn't he?" Alfred asked, disturbing the quiet. His voice was soft and caused a sort of ripple effect in the room.

"Yes," said McKnight. "How do you know?"

Jones shot him a look. "He has a sort of style," he murmured, looking away and back to the painting. "Solid coloured background. Silhouetted figures. Something a little metaphorical; a commentary of sorts. This pretty much has his name written all over it, and down in the corner, of course." A tiny smirk played at the corner of his mouth and even McKnight chuckled - if only a little.

"Come now," the psychiatrist said with a gesture towards one of the chairs. "Have a seat; there are a few things we need to discuss."

Uncertainty filled his face for a moment and Alfred hesitated before nodding and moving to collapse into the chair. All things considered the man appeared to be at a relative ease finally, and his body seemed to have relaxed. "Alright," he said. "What is it you want to talk about, Sir?"

'_Nice; he's handling it like an adult_.' Turning his back to the lawyer, he walked around his desk to sit across from him. "Just a little bit about you, actually," he said with a light smile. sitting with a slight groan. "And your relationship with Matthew."

A sigh. "I figured as much."

McKnight shook his head. "While he might be my patient, I feel a particular closeness to the boy, as does my wife," he said. "He lived with us for almost a year, I've had him in my life for three years now, and honestly, he feels more like a son to me. If it weren't for the fact that he's a self-sufficient adult, we probably would have offered him adoption papers by now. Understand?"

He nodded slowly. "So this is basically the equivalent to meeting your partner's parents for the first time?"

The psychiatrist gave a thin-lipped smile that did not reach his eyes. "You could say that."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and his skin lost a few shades. "Shit."

Chuckling, he leant back in his chair, folding his hands on the top of his stomach. "You could say that, too. Now, tell me a little bit about yourself, would you?"

"I'm Alfred Jones and I turned twenty-seven on the Fourth of July. I grew up in Lowell, Massachusetts. My father is a multi-billionaire that works for Google, Microsoft _and _Apple; although he says he donates to charity, he donates maybe a thousand dollars a year when he could help a lot more people. My mother, on the other hand, is a Swedish model that has never remarried when her and my father divorced when I was sixteen and she has a heart of gold and would do anything to help anyone." He paused, breathing slowly. "We were living in New York at the time because my father's business required him to be there. I have a half-brother by the name of Arthur Kirkland, and he's thirty-eight with a son named Peter and a wife named Morgan. I went to Harvard Law, graduated at the top of my class and after working only six months as a defence lawyer I was offered a spot as Manhattan's DA. New York sucks, but I can deal with it."

Alfred Jones sat back in his seat, arms folded defiantly across his chest. "Is that enough for you?"

McKnight faltered, his mouth opening and closing before he said anything else. There were a few things he wanted to say to the lawyer, but he didn't know what they were anymore. His own anxious habit had gone into overdrive: clicking pen tops. Everything had been perfectly planned out in his head, every little question mapped out as they had been going up the elevator and walking down the hall. But now that they were in his workspace, door closed and the man waiting for him to say something - anything at all - he was at a loss for words.

"Just tell me one thing," he said finally, setting down the pen he had been nervously fiddling with. "Why were you even interested in him in the first place? You're a very straight man who, according to gossip, has a notoriety for one night stands and a running tab at the Plaza and Hilton Hotels? Working with young men that rather being seen with people worth being seen with, you hear things like this."

Alfred stared at him, blinked and then looked to the side with a shrug. "Okay, yeah, I'll admit it. I've slept with more women than I've prosecuted criminals. But as for why I fell for Matthew? I don't know," he said. "I really don't know. At first, honestly, it was just a bit of a shallow attraction because I mean look at him. He's fucking gorgeous. Man, I thought he was a _girl _when I first saw him at the supermarket, and all I could think was 'holy shit she's stunning' and then I caught his nametag. Then, I noticed the lack of-" he made a circular, cupping-gesture towards his chest, "- and I realized that she was actually a he. You'd think that would have changed my opinion, right? I thought about it. I really did. But did it change? Not even close. He just made me curious; he'd have this vacant sort of stare while doing his work, but the moment someone talked to him he'd light right up and chatter away with them. And his soft-spokenness kind of drew me in, too; all the guys I hang out with are brash, loud-mouthed assholes. He's just a quiet asshole. And I found it really interesting, and he has this sharp sort of wit which I really like in a person. By then it was full-blown infatuation. Funny to think that was almost a year and a half ago."

McKnight's eyes widened. "You liked him for almost a full year before doing anything about it?"

Nodding, he grinned. "Yup," he said. "I was too chicken-shit to say anything to him."

"Well, how did you even get over that in the first place?" he edged forward, clearly interested in this particular story - he hadn't even heard this one from Matthew. Out of anything he was still tight-lipped about, it was with his relationships.

"He just sort of passed out cold one day at work. Back in November, I think. And he happened to collapse on me," Al said. "So, his boss asked me to take him to his apartment. I did that and I didn't want to _leave_ him there. Not with him being so sick; I needed to stay and make sure he was alright. I hung around for a few hours, waited until he woke up and then I cooked him dinner. We talked, and even though he didn't seem to completely like my presence, he didn't say anything against it. I felt a little emboldened by that and then I just turned into the persistent guy everyone loves to hate."

"I take it he wasn't too pleased about that?" McKnight inquired with a chuckle.

"Well, no, not really," said the lawyer meekly. "He barely returned my calls; he was detached whenever we hung out - which was, maybe, once every two weeks. I was basically the only one that tried to bridge the gap between us. But, back in January, or maybe it a little bit before that, we went for a drive and just … things were different after that. Something changed; something _clicked_. We seemed to have better conversations; he started to return my calls. Returning my calls turned into him calling me and being the one to ask if _I_ wanted to hang out. We'd sometimes stay at my place and watch movies or play video games. Sometimes we'd have a few drinks and he'd crash there for the night, or vice-versa. Then we somehow got to the point of just being able to sit in the same room for several hours without saying a word, just doing whatever. And then … _this _happened."

'This' obviously meant their relationship.

Nodding in a way he knew more than likely came across as condescending, although it was unintentional, Doctor McKnight hummed. "It's surprising," he commented.

"Surprising that he fell for you as fast as he did. He has emotional barriers that would rival that of the Berlin Wall when it was at its highest notoriety in history."

Alfred gave a black chuckle, gaze dark for a moment as he stared impassively at a wall. "Oh, trust me," he murmured. "I know. I know very well that he has defences. He still does at times, but it's okay; I accept that because it's something I can't change."

"What about yourself?" demanded the man suddenly. "How open are you with him?"

He faltered, mouth opening and a pained look crossing his face. "I try to be as open as I can," said the lawyer. "I'm bad at it. Honesty, no problem. But letting someone know how I feel? I suck at it. My own barriers are almost as bad as his. And I have a hard time talking about stuff from when I was younger, but he understands and he told me that he's perfectly fine with it."

"And why is that?"

The question was reflexive and Alfred narrowed his eyes at it. Immediately he realized that he had crossed a line he had not known even existed in the first place. From the look upon his face he wished he could retract the question even though that was just wishful thinking at its finest.

"That's_ not _your place to ask," he snapped, straightening in his seat. McKnight winced.

Scrambling to recover, he just shrugged. "Psychiatrist," he said as a means of an excuse. Lame, and he knew it. And he knew Alfred did as well; he just rolled his eyes and snorted. "I've been in this profession going on twenty-five years. It's ingrained in me to ask and then analyze; my apologies."

Blue eyes were mentally dissecting him and then the legal representative just nodded before looking away. They said nothing after that, Alfred staring sullenly at the wall once more as the doctor sat there at his desk, hands folded on the cool oak surface and a feeling of discomfit in his gut. His mouth had a sour taste to it and it felt cottony, like something had crawled in there and died.

Well _that_ tactic crashed and burned.

Awkward silence persisted and even Alfred shifted with a slight discomposure.

"Hey," Al said all of a sudden. "How did you, well, become Mattie's doctor?"

So it would seem that he was not the only one with a few unanswered questions. "He was brought in from the streets by a group of people he knew after trying to kill himself," he said quietly. "I saw him a few days later; they had him in a medically-induced coma so that his stitches would have a chance to set. He was slightly hostile, but it was in that passive-aggressive way of his. He just glared and kept his nose stuck in the stack of books the nurse had given him - she was the only one he would talk to, but that was only when the woman was being really persistent. A week later I was in the process of setting up appointments when I found out that he had taken off in the middle of the night and I spent almost two months hunting him down before he wound up in the lock-up in Queens, I think it was."

"Didn't he hold up a convenience store or something?"

At first he didn't want to answer the man, but finally McKnight confirmed his query with a lone nod. "And after that, it took almost five months for him to really open up with me about anything," said the man with a sigh. "He has the casing of a titanium bullet."

"Tell me about it," he chuckled. "Even now he still does at times."

Another lag, but this time it didn't feel as awkward as before.

There was something else Ian wanted to know. Something his patient had said to him during their session continued to stick with him, and curiosity filled him. '_He put himself through hell and back for me._' That could have meant anything at all, and maybe he had just taken the statement out of the context of a situation and just put it like that, but he needed to know. It could have been anything at all and that was what was bothering him the most about it. Maybe it was prying too far into their privacy.

Privacy or not, he was curious and that was the end of it.

"Today Matthew told me that you basically 'put yourself through hell and back for him'," he said slowly, trying to choose and apply his words as carefully as possible, "before the two of you actually started dating. I understand if you think that's too much that I'm asking and you don't wish to answer. I won't impose on your privacy. But I _would_ like to know, Mr. Jones."

Jones watched him with a passive expression, eyes falling shut, lips pressed into a tight grim line. He said nothing; it was easy to tell he was uncomfortable and Ian was perfectly alright with that because it really was an invasion of his privacy. Standing and preparing to tell him that it was okay and that they didn't need to talk about this, he stopped when Jones started to talk in a voice that gave off little to no indication of how he was feeling.

"I'm a recovering cocaine addict," he said in a flat voice. McKnight's eyes widened and he felt his jaw loosen a little.

Oh.

_Oh._

That was _not_ what he had expected.

"You don't need to know the details of it, but when Matthew found out about my addiction he lost it," explained Alfred. "I know he didn't mean to freak out the way he did - he told me this later - but it was just an instinct to react that way; I know I probably would have if we had been placed in opposite roles. But, he basically dropped the 'it's me or the drugs' bomb and I listened to him. I wouldn't listen to my brother or my friend when they told me I needed help, but when I heard it coming from him, I listened." He gave a shuddering laugh that was high-pitched and Ian McKnight wondered just how okay he really was. "My brother took me to England with him because I refused to do one of those cookie-cutter rehab programs."

"So you mean you're detoxing yourself without any sort of professional help?" the man demanded, incredulous. There was a small blossom of respect beginning to bloom for the district attorney and McKnight found himself quite willing to offer his services should he need them.

"Not entirely," he admitted. "I see a therapist once a week now, and Mattie has taken it upon himself to take care of me when it gets bad. I don't know why he does it. And I'm still busying myself with volunteer work and playing guitar and hanging out with my own friends as well. So I have professional help to an extent, as well as support from other people I know."

"Incredible," he said. There was a look of awe on the practitioner's face. "And you did this just for him?"

Alfred bobbed his head a little, arms folded across his chest. He was lounging easily in the chair now, body having lost any visible tenseness; he was comfortable with the discussion, something the psychiatrist took as a good sign. "I had a scare with a near-overdose back in December," he said, "so I started to lose my taste for the drug then, believe it or not. And after that I started to cut back on how much I did. It was a really gradual process. I went from doing almost six lines a day to three lines every two days or so by early April. Maybe it was because I was hoping to avoid Matthew ever finding out, but that wasn't the case. Him finding out just pushed me even further to getting off the drug."

"Was it bad, your detox from the cocaine?"

"Do _you_ like asking stupid questions?"

Spluttering, McKnight made a choked noise and then he understood why his sort-of-son was attracted to this guy: he was just as much of a dick as his lover. _It all made sense now. _What a cheap epiphany. He could have gone to the dollar store to get one just like it.

There was no reason for them to talk now; in all honesty, all he really wanted to know was just how much the man knew about his patient. Had he turned around and said that he knew little to nothing about Matthew, the man would have told him to just forget any and all notions of having a relationship with him until he knew what it was he had been through. That wasn't the case though, and he couldn't help but feel a slightly relaxed feeling overtake him knowing now that he was obviously in good hands.

"Honestly, it's one of my favourite things to do," he commented in a dry voice as he got back up with a groan. His knees really couldn't handle this extending sitting business anymore. Alfred laughed lightly, making to stand as well. "But, promise me one thing, would you?"

The lawyer shrugged. "Sure thing, Sir. What is it?"

"You better take good care of that boy," he said in a low voice. "Keep him close but at the same time give him his space. And so help me God if you ever hurt him, I'll find the means of ruining your career; I have connections with the judicial system and big corporate moguls like you would not believe."

When the man paled and babbled incoherently, saying 'he would never hurt Matthew because Christ he loved him too much why would he ever consider doing something like that to someone he loved more than himself?', Ian McKnight knew he had done his job.

_Time to call it a day_, he decided with a smug smile. And what a good day it had been.

* * *

Matthew had killed the Escalade.

It was the end-all be-all to any improbability he had ever dealt with because it had just _happened _when there were so many other things that could have gone wrong. He had no idea how he had managed it, but he had committed vehicleicide. The SUV wouldn't start. The radio wouldn't come on. The goddamn key wouldn't even turn in the ignition, nor would the wheel itself; it was like the whole steering column had locked up on him and said, "ha-ha, fuck you, you stupid bitch." There were no hazard lights to come on and even the GPS that came in the vehicle wouldn't work. So he tried to hook up the iPod, but again it was to no avail. When this had happened, he went around to the front of the car and popped the hood, deciding to take a look and see what was there.

All it did was confuse him because he did not understand how a car was meant to function, nor could he tell the difference between a battery, alternator or a radiator or all the other -ators down there. So instead of touching anything and potentially causing the damned Satan's creation to explode, he went back into the Escalade, calmly sat down and then slammed his head down so hard on the steering column that the horn blared and pigeons scattered.

He, Matthew Williams, had murdered his boyfriend's beloved Escalade.

Doomed - that was the only word he could apply to himself in this situation.

He was so fucking doomed.

Alfred was going to kill him, dump his corpse in an oil barrel, fill it with concrete and throw him out into the harbour and he would never be heard from again (no shit Sherlock) and then he would have to come back as a spiteful, angry ghost trapped in limbo because he had so many things left to do because, "_Christ, I just turned twenty-two. I'm too young to die!_"

**THE END.**

Famous last words of every wrong-doer in the world, by the way. Too young to die, family that loves me. The sort of thing that would go in one ear and then immediately out the other because your executioners really don't give a shit; half the time they're being _paid_ to kill you, and for the ones that don't get paid they're obviously doing it because slaughtering quasi-terrorists and Nay-Sayers and just bad people (or maybe even good people because really, who knew?) in general gives them a perverse little boner.

Maybe he would grovel.

Yeah, grovelling could work.

(As long as he was willing to beg for complete forgiveness for a few years and completely demean himself into the next dimension.)

He was still seated with his head pressed onto the steering column of the now-defunct Escalade with tears of frustration pricking at his eyes and a sense of dread turning his gut when Alfred got into the passenger seat.

"Dude, it's like a sauna in here," he groaned. Matthew had abandoned his beloved sweater in favour of sitting there in just a plain white t-shirt because of said warmth. "Why don't you have the air conditioning on? I'm not gonna kill you for wasting gas to keep yourself from combusting."

His lower lip trembled, Alfred's eyes widened and then the Hoover dam exploded into a flurry of tears, pathetic apologies and desperate pleas of "_don't kill me Al I didn't mean to kill your car I really didn't I'm sorry I'm sorry forgive me_".

The American stared at him, speechless.

Matthew slumped in his seat and gave a wretched-sounding sniff.

Alfred continued to stare, trying to figure out what the hell just happened and how he could possibly react.

Then: "Well now. _Shit_."

Lower lip trembling, the artist whispered another feeble-sounding 'I really am sorry' before sliding further down in the seat. Miserable didn't even describe how he felt; if he could afford to pay for whatever repairs were necessary, he would. But he couldn't and that was the problem. Maybe he shouldn't have hit the thing in that initial moment of mounting frustration.

"Hey now, don't cry," Al muttered, shifting awkwardly in his seat to wrap an arm around his shoulders and use his thumb to wipe away the tears pooling at his lower lash line. "Why are you freaking out? I'm not angry or anything."

"B-But I f-fucking _killed _you car!" he interjected, voice shrill.

"Alright, come on, tell me what happened," he coaxed with a strained sigh, shaking his head and obviously trying his best not to laugh at his distraught boyfriend.

"Well, it's like this," Matthew explained, sniffling briefly before shifting and leaning in closer to the arm wrapped around his shoulders, "I got in and I was like, 'well I'll just start the car and turn on the air conditioning and I'll wait until Al comes out'. Which was, at the time, a totally amazing plan. _At the time _being the key phrase. When I put the key in the ignition, it hesitated and then it made this weird sort of noise that wasn't actually a noise but it was a noise, you know what I mean?"

Alfred looked utterly lost, but nodded slowly as though he understood and was thus permitting him to continue.

"It was the kind of sound a computer makes when powering down, actually." He didn't really notice how Alfred's face had paled a little beneath his tan, but instead surged forward in his recollection. "So I tried to start it another nine or ten times, but it wouldn't even make any of the same noises that a car will make when it won't turn over - it didn't make a single goddamn noise. Out of frustration I kind of hit the spot where the key goes in and then, after that, the key wouldn't even turn in it. And you can't move the steering wheel, either. The radio doesn't work, the lights don't work, the GPS doesn't work and the iPod won't even turn on when I plug it in. It's like there's absolutely no power in the damn thing anymore."

There was silence in the vehicle, and Alfred patted his lap and slowly nodded his head in unison. Mid-dialogue had seen him removing his arm from the thin shoulders they were draped over. "I knew the thing was on the way out," he muttered with a gesture in the direction of the hood of the Escalade, "but I never realized how bad it might have been."

And with those few words everything changed and no longer did he feel awful for what he had done.

Now, he was just pissed off. _Royally_.

Turning his head a little to stare at his boyfriend, there was a singular twitch at the corner of Matthew's right eye. "You … you _knew _there was something wrong?" he asked in a cheerfully murderous voice that caused Alfred to visibly balk and cringe away. "Oh well isn't that fucking splendid I _love_ how you _warn _me about these things."

Enter phase one and a half of passive-aggressive rage.  
**Status:  
**_Apologize profusely for about twenty minutes; you might get away,  
it's recommended that you avert your gaze lest it lingers too long  
and provokes immediate, negative action of the verbal kind._

"Oops?" he murmured weakly. Instead of replying to him, the artist pointedly ignored the fact that he even so much as _existed. _A grumbled apology and Matthew smirked darkly. "I'll be back; I'm going to place a call to find out just what it is." He pressed a quick kiss to his temple - which was snubbed as well, just because he was feeling spiteful now. Pulling out his phone, Alfred dialled a number seemingly at random as he slipped out of his seat and back out into the sultry heat of the day, leaving his boyfriend to fume and bitch and sweat in the air conditoningless Escalade.

And fume and bitch and sweat he did, for nearly half an hour at that.

Matthew was rejoined sometime later and Alfred heaved a sigh when he dropped his weight heavily down on the seat, leaving his door open as though trying to expel some of the heat from the SUV. It was in vain because it only brought more heat into the interior. The Canadian felt like his body was melting and he suddenly wished he was living underground.

"So?"

The lawyer glanced over to his lover and then crashed back against him, the back of his head narrowly missing the steering wheel as it made contact with Mattie's lap. He shifted awkwardly for a moment as his spine was resting on top of the center console of the vehicle. "So," he murmured in return, exhaling through his nose. "This baby is a lost cause. It's the computer in it that's been fried; some sort of inherent malfunction that tends to happen in these things, but it's a rarity for it to occur. The guy I was talking to told me that the cost to replace the parts that have failed would amount to almost as much as what it would cost to buy another Hybrid. So this can stay here and _rot_ on its axels as a testament to why computers should not comprise as a part of the engine of a vehicle."

Someone sounded slightly vindictive, and just a tad bit heartbroken. The poor wretch.

"Amen to that."

Watching as his chest deflated, Matthew swept a hand along Al's forehead - warm, dry - before resting it on his stomach, staring out over the bonnet of the clinically dead Hybrid and watching as heat rose from the pavement. Alfred placed a large hand over his own dainty one. It hurt his eyes, watching the waves and distortion of the air just a few centimetres above it, and he felt stomach-sick already from the warmth.

He hated the summer. Too much warmth. Too much sun. Days that were too long, nights that were too short. Too many days spent lying on the floor trying to soak up the coldness of the wood or tiles, wearing nothing other than a pair of loose-fitting boxers and occasionally letting an ice cube melt on his chest as he strategically stationed fans to point at various parts of his body. Too many nights spent sleepless on top of the sheets, sweaty and sticky and uncomfortable and then spending the next day grouchy as all hell because it's too hot to drink coffee and it'd take too much effort to drag himself to the nearest coffee shop to get a frappachino.

Matthew Williams hated the summer season so much it hurt for those reasons and the fact that, after walking for an hour or two, you started smelling like a fucking wet dog from sweating so much.

Heaving a sigh as Alfred sat back up, his back to him and slightly hunched, Matthew turned in his seat and ran his hand down along the back his shirt, then repeated the motion but with a finger down along his spine, feeling the bumps and slight curvature of the vertebrae. His lover shivered, wrenched himself around and grabbed the younger man's finger with a scowl. Laughter rang out.

"Ticklish?" he teased, inching forward to press a short kiss to his nose.

"No," Al huffed. His cheeks were rosy from both the heat of the day and the tiny little peck he had been given. It made him chuckle and inch closer to the older man. His knee brushed against his thigh. "But it gives me cold shivers every damn time someone does that."

Jerking his finger free, Matthew ran his hands down along his sides and then made an interested noise in the back of his throat. He repeated the process, letting his hands sit at his hips and ignoring the look he was being given by his boyfriend. Despite the lawyer going to the gym on a regular basis again, there hadn't been that much of a change to his body weight - perhaps it had something to do with he still ate more than what he probably managed to burn off every Wednesday and Saturday night. There was something he had been meaning to point out to him though, and now seemed to be the perfect opportunity to do so.

"You have _love handles_, Princess."

"… I hate you so much."

* * *

Aaaaaaaaaa HEY GUYS WHAT'S UP. Lmao I never realized I forgot to post author comments at the end of the last chapter until, like, yesterday? Hdfbghjfg OOPSIE. But ANYWAY. I'm not sure if you all noticed, but I have a link to a lj account I've made specifically for this story (coughsmutcough) so I just thought I would let you all know that! :3

And hufffhufffff thank you all for the reviews you guys left. I always die a little with excitement when I see there's been a new review left. :'D


	26. Chapter 26

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX.**

Getting out of bed was no longer an option.

Not because he was unhappy - in fact it was quite the opposite and damn McKnight to the ninth circle of Hell because he was right and the pills worked just fine for him. In fact, they worked a little too well and they made him feel better than the Valium and Zoloft or Ativan had ever managed to. All the same, the reason getting out of bed was not an option was because he was just so goddamn sleepy.

And comfortable - can't forget that.

Even though he had just woken up, he wanted to go back and sleep even more. The bed he was in was a factor; the medication still diluting his awareness and coherency was a factor and, frankly, it made him want to sleep for days on end. He found himself thankful, however, for this sleepiness was the only side effect that had made itself apparent to him.

It had taken Gilbert practically ripping him a new one, Jade threatening him with death and Alfred more or less prepared to call bloody blue murder and phone McKnight to tell him that he wasn't taking his pills. All of that and then some for him to start properly taking the medications. However, it was the confrontation with Al that had been the breaking point.

Needless to say it had turned into something akin to a screaming match. It was about how he needed to stop being so stubborn and just give the pills a chance because for all he knew, this could be the perfect medication for him. Retaliation came in the form of the artist telling his boyfriend to go and fuck himself because sure he had been on depression meds before but he didn't actually know or understand what it was like to be bounced back and forth between drug after drug after motherfucking drug. Then he had been called out for being scared and too resistant to change, and the fact that he seemed all too ready to sit and wallow in his own misery than to try and get better. Everything boiled down to the fact that he was too scared. Something resonated with him and he realized that the lawyer knew him a little bit better than he had initially understood. Knew him better than he himself did.

And then that was it; Matthew had stormed out of Alfred's apartment without another word to his lover and they didn't talk for a week.

No phone calls, no text messages. No surprise visits. No being picked up after work. No going over and sitting in his office and reading while the lawyer typed away at his laptop and texted with one hand and had another phone jammed between his shoulder and ear to talk with someone else.

Absolutely nothing at all. They had gone completely incommunicado.

When Matthew saw his boyfriend at the supermarket he turned and went the other way, not wanting to have to say anything to him at all - and not that it mattered, because Alfred had just looked right through him as though he were invisible.

(He felt like a particularly sad ghost.)

A total lack of communication and neither one of them were going to make an attempt at apologizing. Given the way he had been ignored, he knew the same opinion, the same idea, was held by the American. Well that was fine and fucking dandy. They had reached a stalemate, both of them were aware and equally headstrong, and Matthew was dead set on not being the one to break face because something like that was below him and he hadn't been in the wrong.

Right?

Pill-less for almost a week, he started thinking, 'hey, maybe I can do it this time!' He felt pretty good about himself, and the confidence was a bit of a booster. It really was. But then the anxiety started to set, creeping up on him; according to his brain he had forgone taking any medication for too long and now it was beginning to affect him. Five days alone was enough to break him. He was jittery, paranoid. Everything was making him worried and it was getting harder to breathe on a regular basis because his head was growing too clouded with the what-ifs and he felt like he was spiralling down once more. Exhaustion was weighing him down, listlessness and he just felt bleak. He had been in his kitchen, stirring at a pot of spaghetti sauce when he finally eyed the bottle of thus far untouched Cymbalta. He contemplated it as he had dinner - cheese-stuffed tortellini pasta, sauce with rosemary, oregano and garlic powder mixed in, and a glass of water - and then he considered it as he watched some documentary Gil had leant him. He considered and contemplated until his brain felt sore and squishy and then he gave in.

He was pleasantly surprised by the Cymbalta. The first three days left him a little stomach-sick, but only twice did he find himself rushing to the bathroom to vomit after eating. The first pleasant surprise. And then, after his escapade with the porcelain goddess, he found his appetite returned and the sickness passed. In fact, his desire to eat everything in sight grew exponentially until the point that he feared he might eat everything in his fridge before payday. Or that he would end up gaining twenty pounds - although, when he considered the fact that this would be a good thing, he simply carried on with his daily business and decided to have some strawberries in his cereal. He wasn't irritable, either, nor did he feel the need to yell at someone if they looked at him the wrong way. Pleasant surprise number two.

The only downside to the pills was the fact that all he wanted to do when he wasn't eating was sleep. He was groggy and hazy; his body parts sort of numb with that feeling of someone having tied weights to your wrists and your ankles, submerged you to the chest in a pond of tepid water and told you to swim across the expanse of the body without stopping and to reach the other side within an hour of departure.

So he took two days off of work, surrounding his day off, and slept on and off for the seventy-two hours he happened to be home. When he left his bed, it was usually for an hour at a time so he could cook something to eat, eat it and then clean up. Any other time, he essentially crawled to the bathroom and then crawled back. Otherwise, he slept like a man in dire need of a coma to come and take him.

Sleeping was good, though, and it kept his mind off of just how pissed off he was supposed to be with Alfred.

Another five days passed once he started to regularly take his medication, and then he realized: "_Shit, I'm not mad at Alfred anymore. Well God-fucking-Dammit._"

Nothing was said between them until Matthew showed up at Alfred's door, almost two weeks after their initial fight, looking worse for the wear and exhausted - mainly exhausted. Nothing was said between them as the Canadian shuffled into the cool apartment, toeing off his sneakers and dropping his backpack on the floor - he had just come from work. Nothing was said between them as he glanced around the space, swallowed thickly and then gave a small smile. Nothing was said between them as Matthew wordlessly wandered by himself upstairs to where his boyfriend's bed was (that was because the lawyer had, after watching him from afar with a look of relief on his face, returned to sitting on the floor in front of his sofa to go back playing his XBOX 360).

Nothing was said between them until the next morning, when Matthew woke up feeling sluggish and disoriented, but with Alfred wrapped protectively around him, holding him from behind. Even though he didn't entirely remember where he was at first, he didn't really mind the cranium-scrambling sensation because of how comfortable he was. It felt as though his body had sunk down into the mattress and then, topped off with strong arms holding him and keeping him in place, he felt protected from everything.

And that was the story as to why Matthew Williams did not want to crawl out of bed.

Slowly rolling over to face the still-sleeping lawyer, Matthew curled in against the man's broad chest and ran frail fingertips down over his slack lips with a light exhalation. He was still solid; not even a flinch came from him even as he ran a hand down over the slightly prickly cheek facing away from the pillow. When he woke up he would harass him about getting a shave.

It was quiet in the room, not even the littlest sound penetrating the silence - he could barely hear Alfred breathing so, to put himself at ease, he placed his fingertips back over his mouth until he felt warm breath on them; given the way he was lying, it was hard to see the tell-tale rise and fall of his chest. The weight of the silence was pressing heavily on his ears, but it felt right, just lying there without any noise. Just him, awake and comfortable in a bed that wasn't his.

A glance to the clock showed him it was only eight in the morning and he decided that it was far too early to be aware of his surroundings. So instead, and feeling properly creepy about it, he rolled back over into Alfred and watched him sleep.

There was one thing, if anything at all, that he loved about any person he knew whether he was dating them or not. That one thing they all had in common that managed to charm him every time. It was the look of their face when they slept. His boyfriend was not exempt from this admiration - and in fact, he was the current subject of it.

A sleeping person seemed so much younger than when they were awake. The lines present were suddenly smoothed out and they looked so much younger and healthier; any and all stress and exhaustion left. Serenity seemed to radiate from them. Like all the worries of the world and any fears or uncertainties dwelling in their subconscious just seemed to vanish and they could sleep without a single moment of discomfort. It was something he was envious of; that feeling of peace. He wanted, so badly, to have that feeling for himself. Even when he slept he was restless, the events of the day replaying themselves over and over again in his head, twirling and scattering his attempts at rationalizing everything that had occurred. He had been told, by both Lars and Gilbert, that he was a troubled sleeper - his brow bunched together as he slept, sometimes he chewed on his lip and it was, apparently, impossible to hold him because he was too busy squirming and trying to get comfortable even if he had already been asleep for a few hours.

Alfred had never mentioned any of this to him, so he wondered if he had finally changed after all those years of anxious slumber.

Something like that was nice to consider.

He lay that way, facing Alfred for another few minutes, just running his fingers along his lips, jaw and cheekbones. Reaching up he pressed a brief kiss to his mouth, could have sworn he saw the sleeping man smile, considered the possibility of that and decided it was ludicrous, and then rolled back over onto his other side to face away from him and just curl back into the mattress. The grip on his midsection tightened and the lawyer pressed further against his back. Matthew paused, looked back over his shoulder just as he was burying his face in his shoulder and moving his body so that he curled around the artist. An amused, knowing smile touched Matthew's lips as he felt his eyelids grow heavier. The little fucker was awake.

It was the smell of coffee that roused him again, and when he woke up it was just him in the bed. His heart sank for a moment but then he took into account the brew he could smell and then decided it was just fine. Instead of getting up to look for where Alfred might have gone, Matthew instead chose to bury himself back down in the blankets, the material pulled up to his chin as he tried to relax again. The scent of Alfred's cologne lingered beneath the smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee and he found himself vainly hoping that there was a cup being made for him. He grumbled, stretched in a way that was cat-like and then, with his muscles feeling like rubber, he curled back up and shoved his head beneath the pillow. Not before glancing at the clock. 12:37 flashed on the screen and he groaned. He could stay there for another few hours … days … right?

The thought of going back to sleep was a tantalizing notion, one he could not wait to entertain. Honestly, he didn't care if he was spending (see: wasting) his day off snoozing away in his boyfriend's bed. While there were things he needed to get done - laundry, some grocery shopping considering he had devastated the contents of his 'fridge, a bit of cleaning - the lure of a comfortable, Queen size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets and a heavy, down comforter was too much to pass up.

Burrowing back in and drifting to sleep again was now his plan, because being an adult could be damned and go and fuck himself.

His dulled senses gradually took notice of something, and with curiosity getting the better of him, he opened his eyes a little. Just a smidgen, though; he didn't need to see what it was completely - a few vague shapes would be good enough for him. The smell of coffee and cologne growing stronger and a sudden dipping of the mattress on either side of him told him that going back to sleep would probably not be the case and he grumbled. Yelping when the pillow was snatched off of his head, Matthew made incoherent protests and he floundered briefly. Oh for the love of fuck, who gave Alfred the permission to try and wake him up, whether coffee was involved or not? Sunlight was now given the leeway to bother him to its full potential; he grimaced and screwed his eyes shut, his retinas burning. He heard Alfred's low laughter and felt a cold nose on his cheek. Eyes opening, he turned his head and found himself face-to-face with Oreo, wide green orbs peering back at him curiously as if to say 'where did you disappear to these past ten days, Mr. Williams?' With a sigh, he dislodged an arm from the nest of sheets and blankets to scratch behind a perky ear, smiling when the feline began to purr almost immediately.

Feeling the mattress dip down further to his left, he glanced over to see Alfred lying beside him, propped up on an elbow and watching with a tiny smile on his face as his cat and boyfriend interacted as though they had known one another all their lives. But he looked unhappy, despite the smile he wore; Matthew took this in with a growing frown. Blue eyes were downcast and there was a slump to his shoulders. He seemed drained.

Pulling away from the kitten (and receiving a mewl of protest in return and a giant ball of fur pouncing onto his gut), he turned to Alfred and looked up at him. The smile did not falter, although his gaze dimmed further to the point his eyes were simply polished rocks - a dull yet glassy surface that absorbed all but reflected nothing.

"What's wrong?" he asked, reaching up to pull the lawyer down for a short kiss. It was reciprocated for a brief moment and Matthew hated how he was more than likely at fault for it - for the grim sort of melancholy that hung about him. His heart sank to the level of an underground bomb shelter. Lower than that, even. Hell, for all he knew it was probably chilling out with Hades, smoking a few and laughing about how the Leafs managed to trample the Habs.

Alfred just shook his head and sighed, pulling away after he pressed his lips to his forehead. The gesture was brief, loving and it made him feel warm on the inside but at the same time a cold sort of dejection filled the artist.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. Matthew's eyes widened, surprised. "I shouldn't have said what I said, and I feel awful about it. I really am sorry, Mattie. You know I didn't mean any of it - not really, at least. You didn't deserve hearing that."

And then he just started to feel even worse about it. Fuck, why couldn't he just swallow his pride and apologize for losing it the way he did? Sure, he was right in saying that he had no right - to a certain extent - to say those things, but that was not the point. He could have been the better person and he could have asked for a forgiveness of sorts instead of blowing a gasket over a petty fight. Although he could not remember who had told it to him, he recalled once having said to him that, just like Oedipus and Creon and all those Greek rulers and the heroes and heroines of the great tragedies, hubris would be his downfall. It might have been Lars, or Heracles, who was in his advanced philosophy class in grade twelve. Heracles saying it seemed a little more fitting, though. His end lay awaiting him in vat filled with an excessive amount of pride while Alfred wallowed in his arrogance - something they both knew.

Tragic, really. But it made them a well-matched couple when one considered everything.

Silence followed this statement and his own thoughts, and after a moment of replaying the words in his head, Matthew just shook his head and smiled crookedly. "Well, I _was_ being a baby about taking my medication," he muttered with a shrug, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. It was so high up. "So maybe it's a good thing you got pissed with me like that. You just … managed to put me into perspective better than I ever could myself."

A pained expression crossed his face. "Matthew, I-"

"No, Alfred, let me _finish_," he said, voice cracking but lacking any edge. He was just tired. Too tired to be properly firm. "I _am_ afraid of taking new pills; and you're right, half the time I _am_ willing to 'wallow in my misery' as you put it, because I'm afraid of change. I'm so used to having to take medication to feel fine and dandy that I _forget_ what it's like to be happy without them. And that's scary. Four, five years ago I didn't need medication to be happy. Sure I wasn't the happiest, but I wasn't like _this_. Now, I'm so fucking dependant on them that I can't help but hate myself a little bit more every time I take a pill because I have to tell myself 'You'll end up needing it later on in the day or you're gonna end up feeling it later'. It's disgusting to the point that it turns my stomach. And it doesn't help that I'm afraid that if I start something new it'll either create a bigger problem or it won't do anything for me at all. But I'm afraid that if I _don't_ start something new that I'll get worse and that's something I just don't want to deal with. I hate feeling nervous and listless, but I hate feeling medicated even if there have been times I've come up with some seriously brilliant ideas. Like, I can't win no matter what way I look at it. And it _scares_ me."

"And I guess hearing me basically tell you the same thing is what threw you off?" Al asked in a low voice. "And we just stopped talking because of that?"

He nodded. "Yeah, it did. And yes, we did," Matthew said, shutting his eyes and exhaling slowly until his lungs felt like they were being compressed by a steel compactor. Alfred scooted closer. "I just suck at handling being told the truth about myself."

"It still wasn't my place to say any of that to you, though," he replied, burying his nose in Matthew's hair. The artist smiled at this, reopening his eyes and grinning wryly.

"Well you're right about that much."

Alfred pulled back, arching an eyebrow as if to say 'excuse me?'

"Cause your place is the kitchen. Now get up already and make me some pancakes, bitch."

And Alfred laughed brightly, burrowing in close to his lover and kissing him fondly. A bright smile formed on Matthew's face as he was kissed rather senseless and he finally figured out just how much he missed being able to have someone tell them what they thought about him other than his psychiatrist. Someone he didn't quite deserve because he was understanding to a fault, but he was past the point of caring about whether or not he was worthy of his affection cause as long as Alfred thought he was, then that was all that mattered. Then he faltered mid-kiss as a sudden thought was pulled to the surface along with an undertone of guilt and he slowly pulled back with a sigh, earning a confused look from the lawyer.

"What is it?" Al asked, nuzzling his cheek. "Don't tell me I'm turning into a bad kisser; my heart might break."

He laughed and shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that." He gave pause, thoughtful and grinning a little. "Actually, quite the opposite. I think you might be getting better every time I kiss you; maybe my own skills are rubbing off on you." He gave a sly wink, loving how the man chuckled at this. "But, no, like, I have to say I'm sorry too. For the fact that McKnight and Gilbert have been pretty much breathing down your neck about our relationship. You don't deserve to be treated like that."

Instead of replying right away, Alfred moved to straddle the young man. Oreo jumped out from between them with a shrill meow and they both laughed. He was smiling a smile that was fairly ambiguous. But he didn't look unhappy and that was all that mattered.

"Don't worry about it," he said quietly. "I know I managed to build myself a pretty awful reputation for sleeping around, and I know that's what they're worried about, isn't it? That I'll fuck around with someone else while we're together?" Matthew nodded slowly, gnawing on his lower lip as he listened. The lawyer proceeded with a shrug. "I don't know why they're so worried about it; I'm too nervous half the time, fretting about pissing you off or pushing you away or just…" His cheeks had gone bright pink and he buried his face in Matt's shoulder, and mumbled something the Canadian couldn't quite decipher. He pulled back for a brief moment, face flushed as though he were feeling flustered and he looked away. "I've never actually _been_ in a relationship with anyone before, so maybe that's why I'm constantly afraid I'm going to fuck up. The thought scares me." Then he flopped down again.

Despite how pathetic the American was as he buried his face back down into Matt's chest, he couldn't help but feel, as well, that it was perhaps the single most sweetest thing he had ever heard come from him. Candid, too. A few months ago he wouldn't have gotten honesty on this level from him and it made him feel like the Alfred he knew now was different from the one he had known then, even if the difference was only tiny in comparison. And while he had a feeling Al wasn't overly experienced in dating when he had first asked him out, he hadn't known it was to this particular extent - that this was to be his first actual relationship. A smile grew on his lips and he hugged the man close.

"It feels funny to say this, given who I'm telling it to and all," Mattie said, "but you need to have a little more confidence. We're _supposed _to argue. I'm supposed to get mad at you, you're supposed to get mad at me and we're supposed to laugh about it a few days later when we figure out just how stupid it was in the first place. An argument or two or five or seven thousand isn't going to push me away, Alfred. So get that fear out of your head now, cause I love you and in fact, just to prove it to you, maybe I'll just be über clingy and I'll constantly dote on you like you're some kind of high-maintenance bitch and I'll tell you how much I love you every five minutes and twenty-seven seconds," he forced his voice into a high falsetto and spoke rapidly, feeling like a chipmunk on helium, "I love you even more than kittens and puppies and rainbows when they've been stuck in a blender on the smoothie option on high for twenty minutes with a dash of sparkles and gayness!" his voice dropped, "and piss you the fuck off because I think that would be fucking awesome."

Alfred laughed as he lifted his head and then shook it. "Well, I can handle gayness and kitten-puppy flavoured smoothies because as you said it would be fucking awesome, but the sparkles _have_ to go. The stigma attached to things that sparkle nowadays is awful and I don't want any part of it."

"Alright, alright, no sparkles," he conceded, hands held up in a gesture of surrender. "Just smoothie house pets everywhere?"

"Smoothie house pets _everywhere. _I think this is something we can agree on and live with quite well," he approved, sliding his fingers beneath Matthew's chin and pulling his mouth to his, kissing him warmly.

Well now, wasn't this pleasant?

Reacting in a way that was subconscious, he lifted his arms from the blankets and wrapped them around Al's neck, bringing him down closer. There was a soft hum against his lips and with little to no hesitation, he opened his mouth to let Alfred slide his tongue in. For once he didn't hesitate in kissing him this way and instead boldly slid his tongue alongside Matthew's, licking the inside of his mouth, teasing him. The taste of coffee and cigarettes filled his mouth, and if it were anyone else it would disgust him, but on Alfred it was a taste that was natural and one he would not get rid of or ask to be taken away and replaced by something else. Because then it wouldn't be Alfred - if that made any sense. A breathy moan managed to escape him and he tightened his grip on the back of his neck as the lawyer readjusted his waist-straddling position so that he wasn't resting his full weight on him, legs on either side of his narrow hips.

The hand holding his chin in place slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading through a few locks of hair to tug his head back a little, but sharply, and Matthew practically growled when Alfred kissed him with a mounting aggression. Surprised by just how demanding he was, he simply groaned and pressed back with just as much fervour, damning the blankets between them. He was biting at Matt's lower lip and tugging it into his mouth to suck on, all before kissing him and tasting the inside of his mouth once more. One of his hands slid from the nape of his neck down to the small of the lawyer's back, spindly fingers latching into the material of his gray t-shirt, nails digging into his skin through the thin cotton. Alfred let out a soft groan from deep in the back of his throat, presumably at the feeling of being clawed at and moved his mouth from the other's, trailing his lips down along his jaw and over the pale neck presented to him.

Matthew tipped his head back with a soft sigh, trying not to groan as Alfred alternated between light nips and outright bites; sucking at his neck in-between; gently licking the pale skin. His lips were so soft. A hand ran along his blanket-covered side and then, once it reached the top of the covers, it slipped underneath and then up under his shirt. Calloused fingertips slid along his skin and the artist arched a little at their coldness, a moan passing his lips.

Fingertips, expert at what they were doing, skittered across his chest, the pad of his thumb pressing down and in circular motions. He arched a little further, gasping and he whined at a well placed bite to his neck. "S-_Shit_," he whispered, head falling back again. The lips on his neck worked their way up along his skin and then returned to his own once more. Matthew greeted him with an open mouth and a crooked grin. Alfred chuckled, shamelessly sucked on his tongue and then pulled back, blue eyes wide and glassy and he looked amazed with what they had just done - perhaps at the thought of what that could have amounted to.

His cheeks were flushed and his lips were scarlet and Matthew just wanted to roll themselves over, shove him down into the pillows and climb on top of him. Wanted to kiss and touch him until they were both gasping and trembling and weak.

Al sat upright, running a hand through his hair and breathing heavily, eyes shut. Black, horn-rimmed glasses were knocked askew. His lips were visibly swollen and red, given the fact that the artist hadn't been that gentle, either - the Canadian had done his fair share of biting back because he liked the deep, throaty moan he heard come from the other each time he latched on. Alfred gave Mattie a small smile and finally climbed off of him, rolling onto his back and resting there for a minute before getting off of the bed. His chest rose and fell steadily, each exhale slowly losing its heaviness.

"You still want me to make you some pancakes?" he asked teasingly, picking up the mug of semi-cooled coffee from the nightstand and sipping from it. Blonde hair stuck off messily and Matthew thought he looked absolutely delicious, ruffled the way he was.

"Sure," he said with a languid stretch, back arching and toes curling as he made a whining sound before flopping again. He grinned despite the soreness of his lips. "There better be some coffee left, or I'm not going to be very happy."

Laughter. "I'll plug the brewer back in to reheat what's in the pot." Alfred turned his back and trotted down over the stairs, leaving the Canadian staring at the ceiling with his fingers pressed to his pulsating lips. After a moment, he removed them and then ran a hand down over his face before groping along the surface of the table by the bed for his glasses and slipping them on. The metal frames were cold against his warm skin, a shiver rippling down his spine and causing goose bumps to flare up along his skin all the way down to his toes. Even now, still, with the time slowly dragging by, his mouth was burning and it tasted of Alfred.

Holy _fuck._

"God, I fucking _love_ that man."

**Understatement of the Millennia. **

And he went back to silently staring at the ceiling, wondering if there would be bruises on his lips and neck. There probably would be. Wouldn't that be lovely? Showing up at work in a day's time with a smattering of discoloration along his throat. They would either think he was a well-trained whore that had somehow gotten off his leash or that a group of people had tried to strangle him at the same time while someone taped the shit out of his mouth.

Maybe investing in some foundation and cover-up wouldn't be too bad of an idea.

Once he managed to drag himself out of bed and down over the stairs some ten minutes later - and yet again, lo' and behold, it was the smell of food that had roused him from a sleepy state of mind - he dropped down onto a stool at the center island with a groan, grimacing at the cold tiling beneath his bare feet. He needed carpet, not tiles. He watched Alfred's back as he stood at the stove, body shielding the frying pan he could hear from view. There were sizzling sounds and the sharp sound of metal scraping against cast iron, the smell of pancakes wafted in his general direction and he groaned with hunger, a petulant, longing noise from the very back of his throat.

Turning around and grinning, Alfred looked over his shoulder for a brief moment before turning back to the pancakes he was making - the only reason he knew how to make them as well as he did was because one rainy afternoon in February Matthew had shown him when he had repeatedly massacred some flapjacks that had had some serious potential.

They had argued about it, of course. Something like that couldn't go ignored for very long without being remedied. Matthew had told him he was an incompetent excuse of a human being. Alfred had said that the Canadian was just an asshole that had himself up on too high of a pedestal. Matthew told Alfred to go fuck himself and that he needed to learn how to make pancakes or they were never going to talk again because frankly, he couldn't associate with someone that couldn't cook a decent flapjack without murdering it.

Motivation had suddenly sprung upon Alfred and they had spent the afternoon making pancakes and stuffing themselves until they both thought they were going to puke.

Now, however, he was a demigod of the pancakes. The man was after getting pretty damn good. Despite this evident skill he had picked up he was only a demigod though because Matthew was the Almighty Lord and Ruler of the Pancakes. He had been eight-years-old when he had mastered the skill of flipping hotcakes and making them these perfectly round, fluffy and moist creations. This was what reserved for him the right to rule in the department of pancake-making. It was a divine creation as it stood, but when he added chocolate chips, blueberries or strawberries to the mix it just became an absolutely splendid thing. Nothing was its match - not even his cousin Francis could make pancakes as good as he, and the man could cook anything and make it gourmet. Oatmeal? He'd make it something the Queen would eat. But no one came near the Canadian's unrivalled skill.

He was just incredible when it came to making pancakes, end of story.

"When are they going to be done?" the Canadian asked with a whine, huffing lightly as he propped his cheek in his palm. Impatience forced him to keep watch, as did sheer habit. His stomach growled and he muttered blackly beneath his breath.

"Give it another minute or two," Al said, snorting. "How about you make yourself useful and pour us up some coffee; the brewer's ready."

With a sigh, Matt stood, stretching and scratching the back of his neck as he masked another yawn. Coffee would be well-received right about now. Steam came from the spout of the white coffee pot perched on the counter and the smell that came from it made his stomach growl; coffee would be very well received. There were two mugs already on the counter, one of them already used. He pointed to it. "Did you use this one already this morning?"

Alfred nodded. "Yeah," he said. "You can just pour mine into that one instead of dirtying up another mug."

Unplugging the coffee pot and pouring the inky black liquid into their respective cups, he grabbed the sugar and dropped two spoonfuls into his own and three and a half into Alfred's. Stirring them lazily, he scratched at the back of his bare ankle with his toe. He felt sort of domestic, doing something like this. Making someone else's coffee was something he had never really done before; Gilbert didn't drink coffee when they had been dating, and Lars would be the one to make it. Standing there, stirring the sugar into the scalding black water as Alfred made them breakfast, had him feeling a little odd. It was a good odd, though, he reassured himself, A good odd that you need in your life because not everything should be done alone, like sleeping in a big bed. Big beds were terribly lonely without someone to share it with.

"Your cup is ready," he said quietly, turning and setting it down on the center island as he went to open the 'fridge to get out the carton of fresh milk to put into his own. Unlike the other, he couldn't drink his coffee without milk, whether it was perked, instant or something from Starbucks or somewhere else. He hated bitter-tasting coffee.

Stirring the warm drink as he poured the milk in, he watched until it turned a creamy shade of beige before closing the spout on it. Perfect. He tugged the door open with his toe and slid the milk back in, the semi-full carton making an odd ringing noise as it slid along the metallic rungs of the top shelf. He sipped his coffee as he wandered back over to where his bag was, still left against the front door from when he had just dropped it without really looking. Trust Alfred to be inherently lazy and not bother taking it out of the way. His pills were, hopefully, down in the front pocket. If they weren't, that meant he had lost him and that he was fucked - not that it wouldn't be the first time he had misplaced his medication.

He set the mug on the floor, grimacing at how its contents almost sloshed out over the rim, and dragged his bag into his lap while he rooted through the pockets. Ear buds, iPod, cell phone, one of the Gunslinger novels. A calculator and his nametag. These things were most certainly not his pills. After some more unsuccessful digging, he came away with the little orange pill bottle after a moment of frantic digging - because really, he was definitely fucked if his pills had pulled a Houdini on him - and he sighed, cracking open the top and popping one into his mouth, choking back the blue and yellow capsule with a grimace and chasing it down with some coffee.

"Yummy," he muttered, making a face and swallowing the horse pill with a slight gag.

Standing and picking his mug up again, he cupped both his hands around it and wandered back over to the kitchen, where Alfred was finally putting their pancakes on some plates. The lawyer paused mid-action and stared at him, incredulous and his mouth working uselessly. Matthew stopped as well, and pulled his head back a little, giving the older man a suspicious look.

"What?" he snapped. "No need to stare; you have cameras. Take a picture, Princess; it'll last a lifetime."

"You're hilarious," Alfred deadpanned, rolling his eyes. "You should do stand-up."

"No need to tell me what I already know," he quipped, sliding onto the barstool and pointedly ignoring how the older man was studying him as though he had grown another limb or four. "I'm better than fuckin' George Carlin, bless his soul."

"Actually, I hate to break it to you but I would probably put you on par with George Bush, Sr. in terms of your sense of humour," Alfred replied, finally tearing his eyes away from the younger man that was cutting his pancakes into dainty little squares before drowning them in maple syrup. So polite when he ate, but holy shit he could put a trucker to shame.

There was silence. The lawyer was smirking. The artist looked murderous.

"You are an asshole and I hope you die in a freak accident involving a goat, a fire hydrant and a block of cheese."

"You bluff, my friend, because who else would you have to laugh at?"

"Gilbert, Mathias and Antonio."

"Okay. Who else would you have to hang out with that'll willingly listen to you bitch about how much you hate your manager, give you a middle-of-the-back massage and make you café mochas?"

"Gilbert. And he'd probably bitch with me."

"Yeah, okay, well that's a given. Alright. Answer this one then: who else will curl up on the sofa, and watch Spongebob Squarepants with you at three am because you can't sleep?"

There was a very good chance he could call that playing dirty, given the fact that he had given such a specific episode that had occurred more than once. But that was alright and Matthew couldn't come back with an answer for that one, and Alfred just smiled, sitting down across from his boyfriend with his own plate of pancakes in tow. What he had to admit, though, was that that had been very quick thinking on his part.

Ever the observant man, he was so right it was frightening; while he and Gilbert were close, even when they were dating the German-American would never have done something like that because he would have dragged him back into bed first. Ducking his head with an embarrassed smile, Matthew popped a piece of food into his mouth and chewed slowly before nodding. "I'm glad that my skills have rubbed off you, or at least just a little," he said, blatantly side-stepping what he had given as an example.

Alfred just mimicked what he was saying, made a face and rolled his eyes before snorting as he set about eating. "See, I don't totally suck," he said. "Only partially."

"You don't suck, Princess, you're just incompe-"

"Why do you still call me that?"

The question was so sudden that it caught Matthew off-guard and he faltered, nearly dropping his fork as he leant back a little. Indigo eyes widened and he shrugged. "I-I don't know," he squeaked, cheeks flushing when he heard how high his voice went. "I … I know I called you Princess out of spite, 'cos when we first met you just came across as a spoiled brat living off of Daddy's trust fund-"

"Which I sort of am," Alfred interjected in a flat voice, "and due to claim the majority of his estate and money when he croaks."

"-but it's just a name that sort of stuck. Like a pet name or something," said Matthew as he pointedly ignored what his boyfriend said about his father. While he knew of the shit relationship the two men had - or more appropriately, the relationship they did not have at all - he couldn't help but want to say to him 'well hey at least you know who your dad is'. He wouldn't, though, because something like that was a low-blow. "I don't mean anything by it now, really. 'Cos you're not that much of a spoiled brat now that I actually know you. It's sort of like how you call me Pet, y'know?"

He nodded, leaning back against the back of the stool and folding his arms across his chest. "Okay, I see what you mean." He was quiet for a moment. "It doesn't bother you, does it?"

Blinking, he looked at Alfred in a side-long way before replying, "Does what bother me?"

"Me calling you Pet. Does it bother you?" His cheeks were slowly turning rosy and the lawyer began to babble. "I mean, I refuse to call you babe because honestly, you're a guy and even though you do look very good - you know, for being a guy and all - I just don't think I should call you that. It's weird and man, I can't really bring myself to call girls babe. And sweetie is just creepy, and I mean I can't call you 'love', either, because I'm not a fuckin' limey so I don't really know; Pet just seemed to stick but if it bothers you I can just call you something else-"

And then, to shut him up, Matthew stuffed a chunk of pancake into his boyfriend's mouth. Blue eyes went globular and Alfred choked a little, grappling for a brief moment with his hands and the edge of the counter, but then he wrenched the fork from the Canadian's grasp and managed to swallow it back without going blue in the face.

"I'm fine with you calling me Pet," he said with a laugh. "Actually, I find it kind of cute, now that I think of it."

His cheeks were red, but whether it was from what he had just said or from the pancakes he had just choked on remained undetermined. They resumed eating; a small smile forming on Matt's face and Alfred focusing intently on what was set before him. Now that they were saying nothing, he could hear music playing from the counter - how he had not noticed it before was beyond him, but hey, he could be a little oblivious at times and we wasn't afraid to admit that. Bob Dylan was playing, something that sounded like 'To Ramona' and he hummed along with it, cutting his pancake into little square chunks before popping it into his mouth and smiling as he chewed slowly. There was a rustling of paper, and when he spared a glance upwards he saw Alfred had reached for his copy of the morning newspaper.

Plate cleared a little while later, he hummed and set his fork down, swinging his legs like a little kid would while waiting for something or someone. Alfred, on the other hand, was reading through the newspaper, a single pancake remaining untouched before him. He seemed intent on whatever it was he was reading - standing up a little and using one of the support bars to gain some height, he peered over the edge and saw that he was looking at the business section. If he was engrossed in it enough, then there was nothing for him to worry.

Hungrily, he eyed the last pancake, his own empty plate and then contemplated the fact that he was still feeling ravenous, and all because of those goddamn pills. All he wanted to do was eat.

This situation was easily remedied.

Moving with a swiftness he didn't even know he was capable of, Matthew quickly switched their plates, wolfed down the remaining pancake and set his fork down before Alfred even looked up. A masterpiece.

When he blindly moved to cut the imaginary food on his plate, sawing for several moments and a squealing noise coming from where the fork made contact, he paused, brow furrowing as his cutlery clinked on the glass plate. "What the…" He glanced down to his plate, eyes torn away from his copy of newspaper with a look of confusion and he stared, bewildered. He looked to Matthew, who was sitting there, straight-faced and successfully maintaining an air of innocent nonchalance as he sipped his coffee. "W-Where did my pancake go?"

It was getting harder to not smile. He shrugged. "I 'unno."

Alfred narrowed his eyes and put his paper down fully, pulling back a bit as he studied his boyfriend. He folded his arms over his chest. "You _lie_."

"What makes you say that?"

"See the pattern on the edge of my plate?" He pointed to the plate that was before him, the one that was originally Matthew's, "This is one of my newer plates, which is the one I grabbed out of the dishwasher for you. That one," he said, pointing to the one he had taken from Al, "is one of my older plates. I had to grab this one out of the cupboard cause there weren't any other ones in the dishwasher. So you, my dear boy, took my pancake. You are one sneaky bastard."

Who did he think he was, Sherlock Holmes? He smiled meekly. "I was still hungry?"

Laughing, Alfred reached across the table and messed his hair up. "It's okay," he murmured. "I'm just glad to see you're eating. Even if it's like a complete and utter pig."

Matthew couldn't help but groan. "I've been eating like a fucking _pig_ since I've started my Cymbalta. And combined with all the sleeping I've been doing, I've gained weight. Like, I can just _feel _it on my stomach and chest."

"I can tell," the lawyer said, calmly sipping his coffee. Then he spluttered into the mug when Matthew arched an eyebrow as if to say 'the fuck do you think you're getting at, bitch?' and quickly attempted to recover. "But it's a good thing! A very good thing! Frankly, I want you to put on at least another thirty pounds, because you're too damn skinny for my liking. So yeah, eat more. All the time. Get fat and jolly. Ho ho ho - wait that's Santa never mind. But, anyway, how much did you sleep?"

He shifted a little on the stool before sliding down, taking their plates and bringing them over to the sink to rinse them. "I had last Thursday off, so I took off Wednesday and Friday. Over seventy-two hours, I slept for about almost sixty."

"Jesus Christ," Alfred muttered, shaking his head a little. The man fell silent after that, opting to drink his coffee and return to reading the business section as the younger busied himself with loading up the dishwasher, singing along to 'Heartbreak Hotel' and swaying a little in time to the beat.

"Hey, Mattie?"

Without turning around, he made a noise of acknowledgement. "What is it?"

"I'm going shopping for a new vehicle, considering my Escalade has been sent to the car graveyard. Do you wanna come with me?"

"…Don't you still have the Benz?"

"Yeah. But I want another car."

"The question is: do you need another car?"

"No."

"Then don't get one," Matthew snapped, rolling his eyes. "It's as simple as that."

Al whined. "But Mattie," he said, getting up from the center island and inching over to his lover as the younger man silently counted back from a thousand lest he hit the DA. "I want another one."

"And why, pray tell, does a materialistic slob such as yourself that has everything he would ever need in his lifetime and possibly in his next want another car? Humour me, Princess. Tell me."

"Because the Benz is best for in-city driving, and I'd rather something with four-wheel-drive for going outside the city limits, y'know what I mean?"

Matthew stared blankly at the lawyer for a long moment, until he started to shift awkwardly, contemplating a quote he had heard before: "_People who get up early in the morning cause war, death and famine._" While he knew Alfred spent the better part of his time doing volunteer work and other such things, there were times when he just wanted to smack him into the next dimension. Into a galaxy far, far away. "When the enviroment throws its hands up and gives up, I'm blaming you," he said, patting him gently on the arm, smiling icily.

A sigh left the lawyer and he patted Matthew on top of the head. "You'll get over it," he said cheerfully as he slid an arm around his waist. "Do you want me to drive you over to your place so you can get a clean shirt and shorts or anything?"

Glancing down to what he was wearing - the shorts and t-shirt he had slept in - and then he sighed, shaking his head. "I'll just grab one of your shirts from the laundry you have stacked on the sofa," he said with a grin, wrenching out of the man's grasp and tugging his shirt off as he went. As he moved he could feel Alfred's eyes on him, and the knowledge made his cheeks warm up with embarrassment; he grabbed the first shirt he saw and yanked it on. When he glanced down he saw it had a radioactive green biohazard symbol on the front.

"I'm not going to have any clothing left because of you!" Alfred called out from the front door. There was a jingling of keys and he heard the front door open - there was that tell-tale squeak that drove him crazy and caused the hairs at the nape of his neck to stand on end. "You ready now?"

"Yes, Princess. Don't get your panties in a bunch."

"I'd have to be wearing panties for them to get in a bunch, Pet."

* * *

There was one thing the two men discovered while they were out: they bickered like a married couple when it came to vehicle shopping - and even the salesperson pointed it out. "_So, how long have you two been married_?"

Talk about awkward.

So instead of answering him, they just laughed uncomfortably and Alfred tugged his boyfriend in the direction of the Jeeps. After even more arguing about it in the car, the lawyer had broken down and said that he would get a used vehicle instead of blowing his money on a brand new one because, even he had to admit, there was no sense in spending a big sum on something he wouldn't be driving all the time, unlike his Benz. But he had set down his own rule for it - nothing earlier than a 2005 model vehicle, because anything older than that would be in need of more bodywork than a recent model, there would be more miles racked up on it and therefore more wear and tear.

It had taken them nearly three hours of wandering around several sales lots, being harassed by countless vendors to the point that Matthew had nearly turned on one of them and Alfred had to grab the Canadian by the upper arm and forcefully tug him away lest he break the guy's jaw.

"Fuckin' cunt-licking bastard," he had hissed once they were finally out of earshot. His cheeks had been flushed with warmth - another day that was in the mid-nineties - and the heat was beginning to make him cranky. "I hate salespeople. They don't give you breathing space, they don't let you browse and so help me fuck if they recommend one more vehicle, they're going to have to take me out of here in cuffs because I might break the fucker's neck."

And Alfred had simply patted his shoulder in a consoling manner, hoping the poor salespeople wouldn't end up being the target of his evident rage as he offered to be his defence attorney.

But all the same, three hours later and Alfred had finally managed to pick out a vehicle he liked, wouldn't be embarrassed to be seen it (something the Canadian scoffed at because, really now Alfred, get over yourself) and there wasn't already a plethora of miles racked up on it. A 2006 Jeep Wrangler with a black paint job with a removable canvas top and a customized leather interior. It came with surround sound, an iPod jack and extra coffee cup holders in the back. It was in good condition, and he had fallen in love with it almost immediately even though there was no GPS or air condition but that was just fucking dandy because it had a _removable top _which meant air conditioning _au natural_. The undercarriage was in good shape; there were no rust spots he could see on any of the parts and there was one little bonus: Matthew liked it, too. When he got in and sat down, it was comfortable and he felt relaxed behind the wheel, unlike when he was behind the wheel of his boyfriend's Escalade.

Standing at the edge of the parking lot, Matthew hummed as he looked over the Jeep. His boyfriend was inside signing papers and then the thing would be his. A tiny smile touched his lips as he peered inside. The thing looked like it had barely gotten any use; the seats were still thick and clean, it had a bit of a new car smell to it and the other hint was the fact it only had some two thousand miles on it. It had probably been bought by someone that had immediately resold it, more than likely in place of something they thought to be better. He scoffed at this, a scornful look on his face, and then he wandered away from the Wrangler with his hands in the back pockets of his beige cargo shorts.

He was restless. No longer was he exhausted, but now his mind was overly alert and he needed to be doing something to engage senses that were a little too primed for anything. Time was being wasted by just standing there, pacing the faded blacktop in an endless circle. It was a wonder he had not worn a track in the ground yet. Perhaps there were other people that went vehicle shopping that ended up feeling the same way about it. Partially-open space and nothing to do. Confined to a square lot was going to drive him crazy because even in an open space, he still felt too enclosed by the endless rows upon rows of used cars and there was nothing to do and fuck maybe he was being impatient but Alfred needed to hurry _up_ already and get out of the stuffy little office that had made the Canadian feel claustrophobic to the point of nausea.

They were already at the edge of the city, and just across the way, he could already see the interstate. Upon pointing this out to his boyfriend, the man had agreed that they would take the Jeep for a test drive. So maybe that was why he was antsy now. Knowing they were going to be getting away from the city and just driving because they hadn't done anything like that in a while - not since April - was making his anxious. That and the fact that he knew what it was he would be driving.

He wouldn't be driving the Jeep. Oh, no. His boyfriend wanted to drive the Jeep because he wanted to make certain that it would be good to drive, and when they came back he would hand over the rest of the cash for the vehicle.

Alfred had told him that he could drive the Benz. He, Matthew Williams, was going to drive his boyfriend's Mercedes Benz AMG 65. A fucking _sports _car.

A whine of anticipation left him and he groaned with frustration, sitting down beside the Benz, the keys dangling from his thumb. Sure, he knew he could take off with the car now but that just wouldn't be very nice an-

"You ready to go?"

Scrambling to his feet, Matthew nodded. "Took you long enough," he muttered blackly, heading over to the driver's side. A hand latched onto his elbow, jerking him back and he turned with a questioning look.

"There are two rules you have to abide by if you want to be able to drive my Benz again, do you understand me?" Alfred said in a sharp, oddly authoritative voice, eyes narrowed slightly. There was a reverse effect on the artist as his eyes widened at just how serious he was. Numbly, he nodded, glanced away for a moment and then looked back, nodding again. Alfred gave a half-smirk before letting go. "One, you don't go too far out of my sight while driving. Two, you better watch your speed; that thing has power and one good shot of gas and the acceleration jumps like you wouldn't believe. She's touchy and sensitive-"

"And you sound like you're talking about a woman."

"- so just make sure you keep your eye on the speed at all times," Alfred finished flatly. He hesitated for a moment and then sighed, shaking his head. "I swear to fuck if you break anything I will kill you. That car is, like, my child. I love it more than I did my Escalade and I swear I will kill you if something happens to my Benz because it would actually be your fault then."

"Love you too, Princess. Bye-bye; have fun driving your Jeep while I drive your Benz! Bye-bye! Bye-bye!"

He blew several mocking kisses and then he quite literally skipped away from the lawyer, slid into the front seat of the vehicle and started it. The key turned in the ignition with little to no pressure and Matthew realized he was already smitten with the damn thing. It was noiseless and the only way he could tell the car was running was because of the tell-tale vibration that shivered through the AMG's sleek, black frame. Beautiful. So absolutely beautiful that it was damn near heartbreaking. Absent-mindedly, he ran his hands along the shape of the wheel, gnawing on his lower lip as he scanned the interior. After admiring everything from his new spot as the driver, he shifted it into reverse, pulled out of the spot and then, once it was in drive, he hit the gas and screeched off of the parking lot.

The tires squealed as he turned the corner, laughter leaving him and a feeling of pure recklessness coming over him because he knew Alfred was more than likely already shitting his pants and regretting his decision to the high heavens.

It was a _very_ bad decision because Alfred was about to find out just how much of a thrill seeker his boyfriend really was.

Tossing his phone onto the passenger seat, he left the screen facing him so that if anything popped up from Alfred, he could see it without the need of reaching over and actually picking up the damn thing. And he didn't really want to take his eyes off the road, either. That, and texting while driving was just stupid - something he knew Alfred did on more than one occasion.

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw Alfred was keeping close behind him in the Jeep - not that it wasn't hard to do, considering he was going a respectable forty miles per hour. The look Alfred wore was dangerous, and even from where he sat, he could see the way Al's hands clenched the top of the wheel - as though he intended on ripping it clean off of the steering column. The lawyer was nervous and pissed off from the looks of it, and was probably contemplating reaming him out for it.

Well, bring it on, the Canadian decided, flexing his hands as he downshifted.

Smirking, Matthew gave the Benz a shot of gas as he pulled onto the interstate, watched as the speedometer shot up from forty to eighty within a second or two, and imagined to himself just how irate his lover probably was. No one gave him permission to drive a luxury, sports car without expecting him to at least test the speed of it. He was probably going through the sailor's ABCs. The smirk he wore widened and he laughed outright, shifting gears as he drove out around someone else lest he rear-end them and hit the gas peddle again once he saw how he had a free strip of lane right ahead of him. A horn to his right blared but he found he couldn't exactly care enough to slow down. He felt a slight thrill go through him at the feeling of the car moving so smoothly down the road at a speed a good few miles faster than what he was supposed to be going, and the horn being directed towards him kind of added to the appeal.

The phone on the seat next to him vibrated, and he spared it a glance:

_Matthew, I'm _warning_ you._

That was all it said, and he burst out laughing, blindly reaching over to clear the screen. When he sat back, he reached forward, fiddling with the radio and several cords until he managed to hook Al's iPod back up. It was something that was usually played in a dance club that came out over the speakers, not really his taste, but Matthew didn't care. Any music was good right now. He turned up the volume and relaxed, taking his foot off the gas and just settling down in the seat as the Benz cruised at a steady seventy, guard rails and other vehicles being left behind him. He kept his hands on the bottom of the wheel, drumming them idly and occasionally glancing into the rear view mirror, snorting when he saw Alfred was still behind him, managing to keep up with him. Poor guy.

He glanced to the speedometer again, frowned when he saw it had dropped and then he floored it off of the nearest exit ramp. A spur of the moment idea, and the phone beside him vibrated again. More than likely it was Alfred, and more than likely he was being hounded for turning off so suddenly. It wasn't down through the original area they had gone through, but it was surrounded by forest on either side - it looked like they were somewhere near the county line, probably heading into Westchester, instead of Rockland which was where they had gone first time around. Hopefully it was a road that was mainly unused because the last thing he needed was to come across a state trooper or some law abiding citizens.

Once he was off the ramp and onto the road - faded from use but mossy in some sections with disuse, but still smooth enough - that was when he decided to say fuck it. It wasn't like the car was going to blow up if he went too fast. And it wasn't like he couldn't see where he was going as it was still daylight out; he was paying attention to the road and frankly, he thought himself to be a fairly decent driver in his own right. He could handle this.

The Mercedes Benz was a car made for speed, for racing. It was good for city driving, for looking and sitting pretty in. But it was made for sports, it was meant to be driven on roads like the Autobahn - wasn't that the stereotype attached to German-made cars? Its body was sleek and compressed, the front end narrow, pointed and smooth with a gradual incline for the roof and then down over the back to the small, slightly arched spoiler at the edge of the trunk. She had a streamlined appearance and suddenly Matthew understood why Alfred was so taken by his car. It was rather beautiful, and she handled the road like a pro even if the driver wasn't. Aerodynamics was this vehicle's middle name, and he was keen on testing them out.

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he sank back into the seat as he set his jaw and Matthew floored it. The tires squealed, and then when he looked to the gauge, he saw that it read a hundred and twenty. If he could remember his conversaions properly, that was almost two hundred kilometers an hour. His breath hitched and he ran a hand through his hair before immediately returning it to the wheel, flexing his hands anxiously as he took his foot off the accelerator. Sweat coated his palms.

Excitement flared when he saw how fast he was going, felt how fast he was going, and he found he couldn't even look out the window because of how everything just flashed past him. It was a blur of green that turned his stomach. But that was nothing; he wasn't going fast just so he could look out the window and wave bye-bye to the world he was tearing past. He wanted to push the limits of the car he was in - wanted to slip to the boundary and just rest there, not quite cross it because even that was too much for him. There was a fine line that divided what the car was capable of and what he was capable of actually handling himself - thankfully, unlike some, he knew himself a little bit better.

Now that he was after breaking one-twenty and was almost closer to the range of one-forty, Matthew could hear the engine of the vehicle, listening with a sort of breathlessness as the coup practically growled as it careened down the deserted road. Or at least he hoped it was deserted. Well, he would find out the hard way, wouldn't he? The car practically drifted as he took a gradual corner, using both hands to gently turn the steering wheel, holding his breath as he did. The littlest touch and the wheels turned. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck and he shivered at the itch of it.

Much to the relief of his nerves (and feeling of personal safety), the car didn't hit the shoulder of the road, nor did it skid. He somehow managed to keep it on the pavement and as he righted himself back on the road he breathed a sigh of relief. Had he hit the gravel, the car would have gone out of control - he had seen it happen before when he was only eleven.

It had been late fall when the accident happened, and it was just one of those things that burnt itself into someone's memory. One of his friends had taken him to a drag racing track; it was some kind of Grand Prix his mother hadn't wanted him to go to, but with the help of his friend they had managed to convince her that it would be just fine for them to go. In the third last lap in an elimination match - now that he thought about it, the irony of it made him smirk - one of the vehicles had pulled too far to the side, a back wheel slid off of the pavement and onto the dirt, and the racer fishtailed. The car had flipped several times before it hit a wall. It had been the scariest thing he had ever seen, and for weeks he couldn't bring himself to even get in a car, as irrational as that might have been.

And as he had taken that particular curve that had been the only thing playing over and over in his mind: _holy shit what if I flip the car._

His heart was racing in his chest, and he wasn't sure if it was the sound the car was making as it tore down the strip of state road or if it was blood rushing in his ears, but he couldn't hear anything other than a steady static. The music he was playing just a whisper. It was all that surrounded him and he could barely breathe, couldn't even feel his body or even understand why that was. The feeling was incredible. Alfred had long since left the vision of his rear view mirror and the phone beside him had vibrated several times but he had yet to look at the screen. Not even a glance to it. He couldn't risk taking his eyes off the road because what if a car suddenly came into his path?

He would be fucked; the people in the other car would be fucked. So he just couldn't take that risk.

Knuckles white, Matthew eased his breathing, relaxing in the seat as he took his foot off the gas pedal. He had just hit 160mph. 260 kilometres an hour. This was unlike anything he had ever done before and he thought his heart was going to burst while still in his chest and his brain was going to go AWOL via oozing out his ears like a gross kind of Jell-O. It felt like he wasn't even in his body anymore for the sheer adrenaline he had rushing through him - he had never been this alert. Never. Every single one of his senses had gone into maximum overdrive and he had become acutely aware of every little detail; every little noise he heard. The gasoline he could smell. The forest that was no more than a blur on either side of him - a green smudge he could give less than a fuck about. The phone beside him vibrated again and this time he managed to work up enough nerve in order to tear his eyes away from the road for less than a second. He gave a strangled bark of laughter.

_You are so fucking dead. _

"Tell me about it," he muttered with a sharp smile, flexing his hands idly. They were sticking to the leather of the wheel and it was beginning to hurt to even hold on.

Driving like this was suicidal and he knew it. Pushing into numbers that he should have never attempted in the first place, Matthew finally felt the tainting of fear that had mixed itself in with the excitement slowly making itself known. That was when those nihilistic thoughts of his made themselves known as well and he started to contemplate finally pressing down on the brake. He could wipe out at any given second. There could be a pothole on the road and he could drop into it, bust the rim up or have a blow out and wipe out. He could hit gravel - as already explained. The stabilizer and bearings in the back could inexplicably fail on him and he could fishtail, spin and flip. He could misjudge a turn and fly off the road and into a tree. There could be another driver on the road in front of him and he could accidentally rear-end them if he didn't pull out around them fast enough. So, so many factors.

Sweat dampened the back of his shirt, and he could feel his body clinging to the black leather seat, sticky and warm and disgusting despite the air conditioning he had blasting into his face to try and keep the heat at bay. Not only was it from sitting against a leather seat on a warm day, but the sudden anxiety at what he was doing was causing him to sweat as well. Adrenaline or not, he was still good and nervous and if he chewed any harder on his lip he was going to bust his lip open.

Anything was possible and he was damn well aware of this. And it wasn't like he had not thought of those before; it was only now they were coming to mind. But despite this, he didn't press down on the break. Not yet, at least.

He had driven fast before, but never to this extent. Never this fast. He had never gone as far as to taking his life into his hands and just dangling it, leaving it out in the open to either crash and burn or to drag itself away unscathed but shaken. He hadn't considered it before, either, until Alfred had handed him those keys. Something had just urged him to, some tiny little voice that had a bit more sway over him than he liked to admit. A whispery little voice told him to lose himself and see how far he could get before something happened - even if that something was just as simple as running out of gas. There was a difference between attempting suicide and driving at speeds that were potentially life-threatening such as these. Having a go at trying to off himself had never left him feeling excited or alive like this - in fact, each time it had been quite the opposite. Matthew was toying with his existence, his own goddamn life, with a nonchalance that was sickening and he knew it.

Despite feeling so endangered, he couldn't help but enjoying everything that was happening because frankly, that was what he also liked about driving like this - these suicidal speeds, breakneck numbers and a countryside that he was leaving behind. Feeling like he was standing on some kind of threshold between where he was now and where he could be potentially headed if he lost the control he had managed to somehow snare. It enthralled him unlike anything else he had ever experienced.

It was the emotional fragility he felt; the physical fragility he knew he possessed. That was possessed by each human, whether they wanted to admit it or not. So hard to create a life, but so easy to take it away. A wrong turn; being somewhere a moment earlier; a contaminated particle, be it in the air or in food. Anything could render a life useless, either temporarily or terminally. Anything could take it away. A human's breakability and emotional vulnerability when they became conscious of the fact that they could be meeting their maker at any given moment was a fascinating thing.

Matthew knew he was just as breakable and just as frail as the rest, but that wasn't about to stop him.

Another message popped up on his screen, and finally with a slight niggling guilt setting in, he started to press on the break once he glanced at it.

_Please, Matthew. _

Two words, just a simple request, and when he hit a sudden corner that caused the car to rock dangerously and burn black lines into the road as he frantically turned the wheel to take it, he decided to cut it off there.

It took him almost five minutes to slow down, but when he did, he pulled onto the shoulder of the road with his cell phone in hand and he lurched out of the vehicle. With a groan of pure mental exhaustion, he rolled on his back onto the pavement despite how hot it was. He could feel sweat trailing down between his shoulder blades and he shut his eyes as the world did lazy cartwheels around him. The Benz was off, but he had left the music playing so that he wasn't there in total silence. Not like it really made a difference, considering there was a rushing noise in his ears, blocking out almost everything. His eardrums felt like they were being crushed. Maybe he had broken some kind of internal sound barrier? Or would that just be his eardrums? Ah, fuck it.

And so he stayed there, prone on the ground and facing the sky with his arms spread eagle and his eyes screwed shut while his breathing slowly evened out. But his heart just kept on thundering in his chest no matter how still he was because he still felt a sort of fear lingering in his despite the fact that he was completely stationary. It would probably take an hour or so for his body to fully relax. He laid there, heart pounding and breathing thinly until the sound of an approaching vehicle prompted him to sit up.

The Wrangler had pulled up behind him and Alfred shut it off. Almost fifteen minutes had crawled by, him just spending the time lying there listlessly. Matthew just shut his eyes again and let his head fall back to rest between his shoulder blades, face turned up towards the sun. He was sweating again, but now it was from how hot it was. Waves of heat radiated from the pavement. Rocks dug and cut into his palm but that didn't bother him; at least he had stopped shaking, for the most part. There was still a small tremble that went through him.

Gravel crunched behind him as Alfred approached. Then, a startled noise left him. Being forcefully dragged to his feet and pulled into a bone-crushing embrace, a squeak left the Canadian and all he could do was hold onto the American grasping him desperately.

"Fuck you, Matthew Williams," Alfred choked out into his hair, tightening his grip as Matthew laughed weakly, a wheezy noise leaving him. "Fuck you so hard that your great grandparents feel it. Don't you ever, _ever, _do that again, got it?" He was tugged even closer and Alfred kissed the top of his head, his forehead, moved to his temple, down over his cheek and then kissed him on the mouth. It was fraught. "Christ. You scared me so much, you goddamn fucking _idiot_."

"Sorry," he whispered in a tiny voice that sounded a little more pathetic than usual, fingers digging into Al's shoulders. The grip on his body was murderous and he thought his ribs might break.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," he spat, pulling away. His eyes were watering and there was colour high on his cheeks - he was both livid and petrified. "You could have fucking-"

"Wrecked your car. Yeah, yeah, I know," Matthew muttered, bitterly shaking his head and rolling his eyes as he looked away. "I'm _sorry_, Al. Even if that doesn't 'cut it'."

"_To hell with the car_!" Alfred roared. Tears were swimming in his eyes and he looked as though he were ready to just about hit Matthew. Instead, he tightened his arms around his lover and practically crushed him against his chest. Another choked yelp left the Canadian. "I don't give a _fuck_ about the goddamn car! The piece of shit could explode for all I care! You could have gotten yourself _killed _Matthew, don't you fucking see that?" He let go and rocked back on his heels, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head. With a subtle movement of his hand he swiped at his eyes. "You could have gotten yourself _killed _and where would that leave us, huh? Tell me: where the _fuck_ would that leave us to you goddamn fucking idiot?"

Weakness overtook him for a brief moment and as his knees buckled a little, he thought he was going to collapse. As much fun as it might have been at the time, he could help but regret it now. He was disgusted with what he had done, and from how white Al's face was beneath the slight smattering of sun freckles he had, the man had obviously been beside himself with terror. So Matthew said nothing, blinked several times as he tried to mentally stabilize and then slid his arms around Al's midsection as the man latched back onto him with a strangled inhale.

"Fuck, Matthew," he whispered, staggering backwards and pulling them back against the Jeep, sliding against the side to sit down on the ground. The Canadian situated himself in his lap, wrapping lean legs around his waist and just resting against him, hands fisting into the material of his shirt. Alfred exhaled against his neck. "_Promise_ me you'll never do something as stupid as that again, alright Pet? Please, _promise_ me."

He nodded rapidly, curls bobbing erratically and the lawyer let out a sigh. A sigh that would come from a man that had just been relieved from a heavy burden. "That was one of those one-time things," he murmured into the man's neck. The hands on his back tensed and tightened the grip on his sweat-dampened shirt. "Well, I can't say _that_. But I won't do it again, I can promise you that."

Alfred pulled back a little, tilting his head as he gave his boyfriend a watery smile. "You mean you've done that before?"

"When I was twelve," Matt said with a weak laugh. The laughter grew and he ran a hand through his hair. He paled, however, when he saw a state trooper go past them. Alfred followed the vehicle with his eyes, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. They looked at one another and Matthew suddenly realized his monthly lucky streak had been used up for the next two years. How unfortunate. "This was back when I lived in Alberta. A couple of friends and me. We … we hot-wired a T-Bird, stole it and went on a joy-ride half way across the province and back. Basically, it was until we ran out of gas. Pushed the car to a gas station, filled it up on what money we had between us and headed back to Grand Prairie. Dude didn't notice the damn car was gone."

"That is fucking fantastic, dude," the lawyer said. "How fast did you manage to go?"

"Well, the transmission was really shitty and the engine didn't seem the greatest, but we managed to get up to one-thirty before it started making some unpleasant noises that made us a little bit concerned for our safety. After that we kind of copped out and got back home by almost eleven o'clock that night," Matthew chuckled before resting his forehead down on Alfred's shoulder. One of the broad hands on his back rubbed soft circles and he curled in against the man, muttering another stream of apologies, shaking his head. Tears were after forming in his eyes and a curse slipped out of him unchecked and he scrubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand.

A gentle nuzzle to his temple. "C'mon, stop it. No tears, none of that shit. I'm not that mad anymore," he murmured in his ear. "Just kind of queasy and a bit wobbly-feeling. But far from angry; you're in one piece, I still have the majority of my sanity and I know you won't do that again, right? We all have our moments of stupidity. Mine lasted me two years, and yours lasted you about twenty minutes."

He just nodded and held tighter. Now that he had his taste of it, he knew there was no need to try it again - not unless Alfred was the one goading him into it. But never again, and that was a promise. Guilt nagged at him and all he wanted to do now was just go and crawl into the backseat of the Jeep and just curl in on himself and cry. Again, thinking of what he wanted to do before someone else. There were times he was just as bad as the people he said he couldn't stand - he was turning into the stereotype he did not like.

Staying there and just internally eating at himself though, he could handle that.

The sun overhead was scalding, they were both sweating and thirsty - he could tell by the way Al was constantly swallowing and licking at his lips - but they seemed to have no intentions of leaving just yet. A move to get up and go had yet to be made, and frankly, the artist wasn't too put off by that. Nothing more was said between them and Matthew was unsure of how long they stayed there. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe a few hours; he hadn't been keeping track. They were the only two in the area; not another car passed them by, and it was just silent because even his iPod shut off. Absolutely perfect silence on either end. Matthew liked how, because of the way he had momentarily repositioned himself, he could hear Alfred's heart and that was the only thing he could actually hear. It had slowed down considerably in comparison to earlier.

Lying with his head in the man's lap, legs outstretched and his arms draped over his eyes to block out the sun, he yawned until his jaw cracked, exhaling heavily. There was a hand on his stomach and one in his hair, just running steadily through the strands.

It felt nice, like this. Sort of like when they had been at the lake, seated in front of the little bonfire they had managed to scrounge together and somehow set ablaze with just Alfred's lighter. But there was a lot less sexual tension strung between them, and it was a lot warmer now, too. If they were to fall in a lake they wouldn't freeze. In fact - falling into a cool body of water would be welcomed.

A smile touched his lips, and he heard Alfred hum, his fingers trailing down to brush along the curve. "What is it?"

"Just thinking," Mattie said, eyes still shut.

"About what?" The man's voice had softened and he opened his eyes, shielding them from the sun with his hand. Al was looking down at him, wearing a smile of his own.

"I 'unno," he muttered, reaching up and flicking his nose. "You. Things we've done. Just stuff, really. Thinking about stuff."

Humming his acknowledgement, he swept his hand through Matt's hair and nodded. "Sounds plausible." There was a snort of laughter in response. "Do you want to start heading back again? We've been sat here for almost three hours now, and you're starting to look a little sunburnt."

Three hours? Not quite what he had been expecting to hear, but he hadn't had any expectations to begin with. Lifting his arms and inspecting them, he grimaced. They stung when he touched them and he prayed to whatever considered itself Holy for there to be aloe at either his place or the other man's apartment. "Shit, you're right," he muttered, sitting up with a grimace. "I guess you want to take the Benz back and I'll drive the Jeep?"

Alfred shook his head. "Nope, you took the Benz out, you can take her back. I trust you, and you can consider this a chance to redeem yourself, Pet." He bent forward and whined, stretching his back out as they stood. Matthew put a hand on the Jeep, immediately retracting it with a whimpered curse when he felt the scalding heat that emanated from the black galvanized steel. "But you're driving _behind_ me, got it, punk?"

And Matthew just waved his hand dismissively as he piled into the Benz, cursing long and loud at just how hot the leather seats were. His skin practically caught fire and started to melt the moment the backs of his legs touched the material. Then he started swearing just as fluently when Alfred laughed at his obvious misfortune.

"That's what you get for leaving it parked in the sun!" the lawyer declared in a sing-song voice as he climbed back into the Wrangler, grinning out over the steering wheel as he slammed the door shut.

"And karma strikes again," Matthew muttered blackly beneath his breath, shutting his own door and slumping down against the back of the seat and staring at the roof, feeling a little bit helpless.

He needed to have a few words with this karma bitch and put it in its place once and for all.

(But only when he smartened up, though. Then and only then was he allowed to give karma his piece of mind.)

* * *

Holy crap hey guys! This is the last update before Christmas, because next week is going to be crazy and I don't know how much of a chance I'll get to do any writing, let alone be online in general jghdkfjg. But, here's a little bit of news: I finally worked out a full-bodied outline for this sucker, and including the epilogue, it's ... half done. Lmao. Yup. She's a long one. But, in my opinion, you can't really properly tell a half-baked love story by only going through the first couple of months of a relationship.

So yeah, thanks for the reviews and faves and just omg _everything you guys are the fucking greatest_. And I hope you all have a wonderful Christmas, and if I don't update before then, I also hope you all have an amazing Christmas. EAT ALL THE THINGS GUYS. ALL THE THINGS.


	27. Chapter 27

**CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.**

There was something almost therapeutic about a cool shower on a hot day that left his body sticky and uncomfortable.

All the night before he had been warm and sticky, lying on the sofa and doing absolutely nothing as Alfred had sat at his kitchen table in a pair of loose shorts and an even looser t-shirt, drinking a beer that was sweating almost more than he was as he worked on a speech he had to give at some gala. He had been invited to attend by Al, but had politely declined it, saying that fancy gigs just were not his style. He could tell his boyfriend was disappointed, but then there was another invitation he had thrown at him: the opening of a new art gallery in SoHo, a sculpture-painting collaboration between six Dutch, Swedish and Danish artists. It had been previously a travelling exhibition but now it was to take up a permanent home in NYC and was debuting finally. He was given free tickets for it.

It was a formal event set for around the middle of September, he explained around the mouth of his beer as he had ceased typing to focus on speaking, and he would be expected to wear a suit, drink champagne or wine and sample nasty little finger foods, and he would be expected to socialize with the artistic elitists of New York, Holland, Sweden and Denmark, and possibly England because the British always invaded their art scene affairs like that for some reason (the music scene was not enough for them).

And, Alfred had commented with a sidelong, shit-eating grin, something like that would make an excellent date. Even though they had been together for almost three months, they had yet to really go on an actual date. The lawyer was clearly using it to his advantage.

Enthusiastically he had accepted the offer, and it may or may not have been followed by a just as enthusiastic, if not more, _showing_ of his appreciation. And it may or may not have ended with him on his back on the kitchen table and with two broad hands running along his body, coaxing and playing his skin. The two of them ended up even sweatier and more flushed than what they were before Matthew had decided to 'thank' his boyfriend for bringing him to an art gallery - and he hadn't even been brought there yet.

Best show of appreciation he had ever experienced.

Even now, his body felt pleasantly numb, still sated by the deep sleep he had managed to drop into the night before. Alfred had left earlier on that evening, still flushed and giddy, to go drinking with his friends until almost three in the morning. The artist chuckled, hands running through his hair and pushing the water from his soaked curls. Seated on the cold tiling, head set back against the wall behind him, Matthew relaxed on the floor of the shower, the steady pulsation of cool water hitting his knees and rolling down along his pale shins in rivulets. There was a fine most coming down from the spray as he was sat beneath the fall of water instead of across from it.

His body felt boneless and he contemplated as he sat there emptied of any other real thoughts the idea of lying down upon the water-slicked floor. Why not lie down when he was already half-way there? His spine was curved awkwardly, knees bunched up to his chest and he shifted his feet so that they were both resting upon the wall of the shower. The thought grew more and more tangible and desirable, and so he finally gave in. He slid down along the rest of the wall with a lazy yawn and landed on his back and stared up at the ceiling before rolling onto his side, shoulder cracking and curving awkwardly to the point of mild pain, but he did not care.

'_Oh, this is splendid,'_ he thought, shutting his eyes against the slight mist of the shower's spray. Maybe he would stay here until the water turned to a solid, icy spray instead of the therapeutic flow now.

Actually, now that he realized it, there were goose bumps all along his arms and he was suddenly craving warmth again. With a heavy arm he grappled blindly for the faucets and slid his fingers along the ridges until he worked up enough strength to jerk it downwards and establish a flow of hot water. How quickly his mind had changed.

Contentment filled him and he sighed, head flopping back in sync with his arm and he stared up at the ceiling. Warmth oozed into his chilled bones and he shut his eyes, inhaling the building steam. Chest falling he went to the point of discomfort and then re-opened his eyes. Droplets of moisture clung to the short, pale blonde curls and he blinked them away.

It was nearly an hour and a half, going on two hours, before he managed to wander downstairs to visit Jade. An hour alone he had spent in the shower just lying upon the tiles and observing how the water gradually lost its heat and just thinking. About work. About what he was going to do. Was he going to stay there? Or was he going to try and get another job? Maybe, if he left there he would consider going back to school; he could still obtain his high school transcripts and send them in. Maybe he could do a distance course, or maybe he could do a two year course in something. Or maybe he could even reapply to that art school. Anything to keep him from a minimum wage paying job.

He thought about it until he felt sick and that was when he had gotten out of the shower.

The downstairs was quiet. "Morning, Jade," he greeted with a smile as he wandered into the sunny kitchen, settling down in a chair across from her daughter, Teresa, who cooed and bounced in her high chair upon seeing the artist. He set his cell phone onto the surface of the table and smiled pleasantly at the five month old who had a shock of red hair like her mother but dark, deep brown eyes like her father.

"Ah, g'mornin' lad," the woman said with a smile, hands leaving her hair as she adjusted the sloppy bun at the nape of her neck. "Slept well, I trust?"

"Oh, yes," smiled the young man, accepting the predictable cup of coffee from her with a nod of gratitude.

His mornings with Jade had grown to be just as domestic as what he had with his boyfriend, but in a way that was almost more of a mother-son sort of deal. Even though the woman was only thirty-odd (she never did tell him how old she was, and if she had he had not bothered with remembering it), she treated Matthew like a younger brother, or sometimes like a son. Not that he minded; it was sort of nice to be doted on by a woman with motherly instincts. He sipped the warm coffee and shut his eyes with a light hum.

Every Monday morning and every Thursday evening he came down to visit the woman as Greg was still in Singapore. Actually, the arrangement was all his idea in the first place; one evening in late January, Greg had taken Matthew aside and asked him if he would not mind coming down and helping Jade with some housework as she took care of the baby. Do some laundry, mop up and clean whatever she asked. It would be nice if he could do something like that, where she would have the baby and it would be just her as he was going to be leaving at the end of April until the end of August on business.

Agreeing had been easy. For one, he was paying dirt cheap rent so it felt like he was doing them a favour by helping with some cleaning even though he knew full-well they could hire a maid to come in and do it. He didn't like the idea of Jade being by herself all the time and working herself to the point of exhaustion as she took care of the baby, either. There were times, he noted, when the little lady could be a fussy little thing and there was nothing more draining than trying to take care of a baby that was doing nothing other than whining consistently. It also kept him from ever having to work Monday mornings, although they liked to schedule him to work an overnight on Sunday sometimes which meant he would crash and nap for about two hours before getting back up at around ten to go down and help her out for the day. Thursday would be a repeated process, but he would usually get there by six in the evening and he would stay there until almost one, but mainly because Jade had admitted, with much embarrassment, that she liked his company and so they would sit down and watch a movie or some television. She had managed to get him to sit down and watch the entire first season of Gossip Girl in one sitting, and he might have gotten completely addicted to it.

Albeit she was a stubborn individual, bypassing Alfred in terms of being headstrong, Matthew couldn't help but enjoy her presence as well for he considered her to be one of those warm, creature comforts you could find in a person and just latch on to.

Looking at the centerpiece of fresh daffodils and greenery placed in a watering can sort of vase, he lowered his eyelids as he brought the pale blue porcelain mug to his lips, hands cupping the warm holder. He sipped it. The coffee was Kahlua-flavoured, and he glanced down at the steaming mug. There was a slight froth on the surface, something he had mistaken for coffee creamer.

"Don't you think it's a bit _too_ early to add liquor to coffee?"

Scoffing, the Scotswoman moved with that awkward grace of hers and flopped down at the table. Like a rejected ballerina that still had a little bit of dance left in her, but not enough to care about technique or doing it right. "Not at all," she said with an easy laugh. Another trait of envy he had developed: he could not help but wish he could be at such an ease in his own skin. "It's always nice t'have a little bit o' change, ammirite m'little bairn? And from what I've 'eard about your alcohol tolerance levels, it probably wouldn't even matter if I dumped the whole bloody flask in 'er." She winked at him slyly and Matthew muttered incomprehensibly into the porcelain of his mug while his cheeks turned rose-coloured. Beside him, the phone vibrated at the arrival of a new text message:

_Just pulled into Starbucks to use their bathroom for the sake of  
__vomiting everywhere. I shouldn't be allowed to be a lawyer when  
__I have friends that spend their Sundays avoiding churches and trying  
__to coax me into going and getting piss-loaded with them even  
__though the next day I have a meeting at nine in the fucking morning._

Laughing, he shook his head, showed the message to Jade upon her insistence and cleared the screen, sipping his Kahlua-spiked coffee with a grin tugging his lips upward. Alfred, on the other hand, couldn't tolerate his booze nearly as well. And given what he had just been sent, there was a chance the man was still either mildly intoxicated or brutally hung over.

He watched as the flowers on the table dipped and shivered a little, and when he glanced over to Jade he saw how the loose portions of her hair drifted a little. Goose bumps had risen again on his flesh. The kitchen was cool despite the window being open, letting in the warm mid-August air to mingle with the air conditioning of the main floor. A breeze that came in with it tickled at the nape of his neck, lifting his still partially damp curls and helping quicken the process. Sweet-smelling air made the room fresh and, as he discreetly removed his pill bottle from his pocket and popped a capsule into his mouth, swallowing it back with the remnants of his coffee, he found he was in a state of calm greater than what he had been while lying in the shower. Maybe it had to do with the way the early afternoon sunlight filtered in through the lace draperies, with the smell of java lingering and how he could see Jade feeding Teresa some goopy-looking cereal. But he felt happy.

It was a different kind of happy than when he was with Alfred - that was just sheer bliss that made him do stupid things and made his heart twist and squirm until it got its way and he felt so relaxed and at home with the prick - but this was just simple, basic happiness. Like getting ice cream on a hot Friday afternoon and managing to walk all the way home without the cold treat melting off of its cone and down over the hand. Something simple, something basic. It was a kind of happiness he hadn't felt since his mother had died.

"What're you on now?" Jade asked him suddenly, shattering his reverie and causing him to jolt, the stupid-looking smile falling from his face as he tried to focus in on her face; everything had slipped out of focus until the objects and fixtures in the room had turned into a subtle blur of colours.

"O-Oh, um," he looked around as though he were trying to physically search for the words he needed, "McKnight has me on Cymbalta now. I've been on it since the middle of July, so like, a month now? It works really well, and it's past the point of making me tired."

"It made y'gain weight," she pointed out with the itty-bitty spoon swivelling from her daughter's mouth and in his direction. The baby followed it with a gaping, messy mouth as a huffy whine left her. They both laughed at the reaction and Jade cooed delightfully as she resumed feeding her.

"Yup. Twenty-nine and a half pounds," Matthew said with a slight grumble. "I've gone up a waist size and everything. I can finally wear a size 28 in men's jeans though, and I don't have to resort to wearing women's pants. I don't think you understand how happy this makes me, Jade. I really don't think you do."

Jade laughed and shook her head, green eyes crinkling at the corners as her visitor stood, picking up their empty mugs - she had been sipping hers in between spooning up little bits oatmeal. "I knew I wondered 'bout you fer a good reason."

Mimicking what she said in a high-pitched, girly voice, he rolled his eyes and then laughed as he immersed the glasses into a dishpan filled with water, grabbing the nearby dish cloth and setting about to scrubbing them. The water was still soapy and hot, and already he could feel his skin turning back into little pruney patches of pale flesh.

"Anything in particular you want done today?" he asked idly, scratching at the back of his ankle. He pressed forward, belly squishing against the counter as he rose up on his toes to inhale the scent of the flowers that were in the frosted glass vase. Orchids, Gerberas, Freesias, and some fern-like leaves filled the holder.

"Since it's only early, I'll just get you t'finish off those couple o' mugs and then wipe down the surfaces in the livin' room and vacuum upstairs and down 'round here," she said, sounding distracted as she wiped Teresa's mouth. "I have t'go out this afternoon and you're coming with me."

Chirping his agreement with a bright grin, he set the scrubbed glasses down into the tray and wrung the extra water from his wash cloth and then turned away from the sink as he wiped the remaining suds onto the black material of his shorts. The dish cloth, still dripping, he dropped back down into the pan of water.

"If you leave your phone on the table, I'm goin' t'read all o' your text messages," Jade sang out as he left the kitchen and headed into the hallway. "And I really hope there are some nice, dirty ones from your man."

Matthew burst out laughing and poked his head back around the corner. There was a grin on his face. "You go right ahead and read whatever's there," he said, "and if you find any dirty ones let me know, 'cos I'd like to read them, too."

Slipping his iPod from his pocket, he stuck the headphones into his ears and turned it on to have it as simply a background noise for while he was vacuuming up. Upstairs, where the Hoover was kept, would be the best place to start and then he could make his way downstairs. So routine now by now because of how often he did this, and here he was, still mapping it all out in his head as though it were his first time trying to make sense of his cleaning practice. A chuckle rose in his throat and he skipped steps as he headed to the second floor.

Well over hour was spent straightening up - moving furniture and taking up small things and getting them out of the way so that he could clean a little easier. Even though Jade had only instructed him to vacuum, he made up the woman's bed and dusted in around her room and the baby's room, folding up and putting away bits and pieces of clothing that he figured might have been cleaning. Anything questionable was left folded neatly at the end of the bed.

In the closet at the end of the hall, where everything meant for cleaning was kept, he found some window wash and decided on a whim to scrub all the windows as well. He saw no reason to not go about cleaning it when he knew it was dirty in the first place, and he'd have to leave all the windows open. Fresh air would go through the house, along with the smell of the pine-fragranced solvent, and that sort of combination was wonderful.

The entire while he hummed pleasantly to himself, scrubbing the panes of glass in steady circular motions, bobbing his head and swaying his hips a little in time to the music he had blasting on his iPod - which had been a steady influx of The Analogs and The Ramones, much to his delight. Good music made it easier to clean. One hand was kept on the white window frame to steady himself. He remained perfectly oblivious to how Jade came upstairs with the baby and paused at the door, watching him as he balanced himself precariously on the ledge of a window to wipe at the upper portion. Should he have turned around, he would have seen the tiny smile of thanks she wore as she ducked into the little girl's room, Teresa propped up on her shoulder and staring around her little world with wide, curious chocolate eyes.

Dragging the vacuum down over the stairs was a task in itself and by the time he had it down and the main floor cleaned up, he was sweating and he may or may not have wanted to crawl into the bathroom and get another shower to take himself out of his misery. Nothing felt worse than taking a shower, sweating to the point of being able to feel grit on the skin and then wanting to shower again.

As he wiped down the table in the living room, seated upon the floor with his legs curled in under him, he let out a small yawn. There was not much to clean in terms of dirty surfaces; there were a few rings from damp glasses here and there across the table top, standing out pale and flaky against the dark grain of the wood. Lemon-scented polish filled his nostrils and he heaved a sigh, sorely tempted to bend forward and press his nose flat against the wood and just _smell._ Given his luck, Jade would probably choose that as the most opportune moment to walk in.

Something like that would be just plain brutally awkward; he would be found there with his nose scrunched against the table inhaling the fumes of the cleaner like he was some kind of freak who's addict to the shit. Because of the compromising position, she would let McKnight know because goddamn it something like that is indeed just plain odd and should never go unchecked for too long and then Ian would call him crazy and say, 'be done with it' and he would have to sit down and watch football with the man as a sort of therapeutic session from the quarter-noxious fumes he had inhaled.

(And then on the eight day God created Super Bowl Sunday and then on the ninth he reconsidered this decision because he had yet to create beer.)

(The tenth day was spent trying to reverse those two days but it was a little too late for that, so instead of wallowing in his misery at fucking up he said fuck it all and then created Hockey Night in Canada. Not a bad day.)

Dusting the top of the bookshelf, however, was a good deal harder to do given the height of the damn thing and the fact that there might have been three of four inches of space between the ceiling and the top of the shelf. To get one side he had to stand on the arm of the sofa, and in order to get the other half he had to drag a small knee-high table over so he could stand on it. If he stretched too far, he felt like his shoulder was in the process of popping out of place and he decided that lying on the floor of the shower was not the greatest idea he had had in a while.

With a thin layer of dust coating the sleeves of his shirt and the mingled fragrances of pine and lemon clinging to his hair, skin and clothing along with a little bit of grime on his hands, Matthew decided if he was stuck in some water and wrung out properly he could probably be used as a wash cloth.

Ditching his iPod on the table next to where his phone was, he dropped down into a chair with a groan and massaged the nape of his neck with just his thumb and pointer finger, eyes shutting. There was the clinking sound of a glass coming in contact with wood and he glanced up, flushing when he saw Jade standing in front of him. She wore a pale green sundress and a gray cardigan over it.

Picking up the amber liquid, he sipped the iced tea with a sigh of content. "Thanks," he breathed, shutting his eyes again and massaging at the bridge of his nose before grinning across the table at the woman.

Jade hummed and then stood. "Have you eaten yet today?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Ah, I had some toast before I came down here," he said. "But my appetite has calmed down quite a bit."

"I'll make you a sandwich."

"Oh rea-"

"Bite your fuckin' tongue or I'll rip the bloody thing out myself, ya shitebag."

Matthew ducked his head, cackling to himself, which earned him a smack with an oven mitt wielded by a woman capable of a deadly aim. He gave a pathetic whine, massaging the back of his skull with his finger tips and sending her a scathing, reproachful look directed over the top of his glasses. She just smirked smugly in return, flipping her long red hair back over her shoulder as she opened the fridge. A thought sudden occurred to him.

"Jade," he asked suddenly as he ran his finger along the rim of his glass, "what do you do?" The drink was icy, and he decided that if she was going to be making him something to eat, he might as well hold off on drinking it.

Pausing mid-reach, she looked back over her shoulder and then knelt upon the floor. "What do you mean?"

"For a living," clarified the artist as he folded his arms loosely across his chest. "What do you do for a living?"

"_Oh,_" she hummed. "I'm a teacher. Grade five. I have been for the past seven years now."

"Really? What's it like teaching kids?" he asked, genuinely interested.

"It's an interestin' experience," Jade said. She was stood at the counter now, back-on to him as she spread a thin layer of honey mustard across some whole wheat bread. "When the year starts off, they're apprehensive. You're a new face and they don't entirely trust you but the majority o' them have enough respect for authority to be polite and such. But then by the end of the school year, a lot of them don't want t'leave you completely even though they know they're going t'see you when school starts back up. You know their parents, you know their brothers and sisters and their favourite books and movies and animals and it's almost like you don't want them t'go, either."

Matthew nodded slowly. "I don't know if I would have the patience to teach kids," he said in a soft voice.

"That's why you teach them somethin' you love, that's how I look at it. I mean, you love art. If you were ever t'become a teacher, why not teach high school art and inspire at least one person t'do some good in the world?" she asked. "I love kids, which is why I teach."

A thoughtful look crossed his face and he stared up towards the ceiling. "You could look at it that way, I guess," he murmured. "But I still don't know what I want to do."

"Are you going t'go to university?" Jade picked up their sandwiches and wandered over to the table, setting them down before she dropped down onto a chair and crossed one leg over the other.

"Maybe," he hummed, picking up a triangle and biting down into it. Leftover roast beef and honey mustard. Perfect. "It's too expensive though, so I might just do a few night courses or something. I do have some money put away though, but I'm not sure where I would go or what I would do, and I don't want to waste money on a few semesters of studying in no direction."

Jade nodded. "You're smart about that," she said. "So many people just go into university, spendin' mummy and daddy's money and not knowin' what they're doing at all."

Matthew fell silent and nodded, taking a bite from his sandwich as his appetite suddenly diminished. It felt like cardboard in his mouth. So many of his friends had gone to school like that, and he didn't even know what had happened to most of them. He saw Ivan on occasion and they would talk, but they were not as close as what they had been. Ivan, he had learned, worked with a bank and spent hours upon hours doing spread sheets and payroll. It was impossible to imagine such a hulking beast of a human bunched up in a tiny cubicle and when he did consider it, it was kind of a funny image that was produced by it. Gilbert went to med school, only to turn around and decide he didn't want to become a surgeon after all. As for the other people he hung around with, he didn't know what had become of them. There were times he wondered if he should try and find some of his friends from high school, but when he thought about it - really, truly thought about it - where were those people when he had needed them the most? Nowhere. The only reason Gilbert hadn't been there for him was because he had been in Pennsylvania and his family back in Germany. Lars had gone back to Amsterdam for the summer.

He also wondered that, if things had not turned out the way they had for him, would he have met Alfred?

There was a very good chance he would not have. Sure, it would not affect him in any way because they would have never known of each other's existence, but it was still a surreal thought that caused a feeling of nausea to permeate his insides.

Stomach turning, he swallowed what was in his mouth even though it felt like there was a plug in his throat. His appetite had all but thrown itself off a cliff and he was starting to feel miserable. Good fucking job there. But all the same he choked back the rest of his sandwich and washed it down with what was left of his iced tea. Jade stood wordlessly, glancing at the clock hanging on the wall across from them and then stretched as she left the room.

Bracing his hands on the edge of the table he let his head fall back, as far back as it could, and he stared up at the ceiling while he slowly tipped his chair backwards and onto its rear legs. Pulling back until it was just his fingertips remaining on the polished surface of the wood, he stared at the wall behind him and blinked slowly, not bothering with moving his hands to try and adjust his sliding glasses. They fell from his face and hit the floor with a clatter, which finally prompted him to sit back up, righting the chair once more. Blindly he looked about as all the colours in the room melted and swirled together and pooled themselves into one large indiscernible pot of hues and shades and he just grumbled before bending to snatch them back up. When he set them down on the bridge of his nose everything was in focus once more, everything sharp and he could look around him without feeling like the room was too far away from him.

Jade was laughing and Williams looked over to her; she had seen him drop his glasses. Teresa in her arms as she came back into the room; she slid her wide awake and cooing daughter into her high-chair. The baby was jabbering away and making high-pitched, squealing noises and clapping her hands.

While he didn't like children, Matthew couldn't help but adore the little five-month-old and her boundless energy. There was something about babies he always did like. It was once they could walk and talk at the same time that he started to dislike them. But babies, he liked. She was always happy; always bouncing and her face always lit up when she saw him. Or maybe it was because if he ever got too close she liked to latch onto his hair and _pull._ And she liked to treat his glasses like a Frisbee.

Which he did not appreciate in the least.

(Turns out they make glasses a lot more durable nowadays; otherwise, he would be on his seventh or eighth pair by now.)

Everything turned blurry all of a sudden, there was a squeal of delighted laughter as he felt metal scrape across his cheek bones and nose, and he blinked slowly. There was a sharp clatter. Make that what could have been the ninth pair of glasses. When he dropped down to retrieve them, he returned to a baby yearning for a fistful of curly blonde hair. And the little girl got her wish.

"Oh no, no no no no _no_," he whimpered, biting his lip and feeling tears prick his eyes. "Not my hair, Teresa. Ta-ta don't touch, _please_." A sharp tug caused tears to spring into his eyes and he let out another whine of desperation.

Scraping across the floor caused him to jerk, his hair finally being ripped away from the child, and with a shrill whine he jerked away from Teresa who had been babbling in that sort of baby-talk only little children and their mothers understood. He, on the other hand, needed subtitles. A look of disappointment was on her slightly rounded face and she made a grabby-hands gesture in his direction, more than likely demanding the return of his hair into her possession. Not fucking likely. Setting a bowl down on the table, Jade smiled at her daughter and babbled some nonsense before turning and starting to feed her lunch.

His phone vibrated, the slim black devil's device sliding across the surface of the table, and he glanced to the screen, grinning. It was a text from Gilbert:

_girl in front of me in lecture is looking up on  
__about chlamydia. also i'm eating jello out of a teacup  
__with a fork instead of taking notes on Dali. awesome?_

The Canadian snorted. Sometimes, but only every now and again, he found himself wondering just what kind of people he was friends with. Clearly ones that were suffering from dwindling sanity levels. Maybe they were the ones attributing to his minor mental problems. Not so much mental problems as they were emotional ones, but nonetheless they probably had something to do with them. Scapegoats were his favourite. Then, his phone vibrated again. Once more, it was another text from Gilbert. No real surprise there:

_also, i may or may not be wearing a cape  
__right now and just my boxers. hint: i am. sometimes  
__i really enjoy being in university still. it means i don't  
__have to be an adult just yet. or ever. _

And then he decided that yes, he was friends with crazy people - it was amazing it had taken him this long to actually realize it.

"Matt, we're going shopping today," Jade blurted out, turning a little to stare at the Canadian who jolted upon being suddenly addressed. When the baby made a fussy-sounding whine, she turned back to her daughter with a coo of reassurance as she placed the spoon of supposedly organic baby mush into her mouth, making 'num num num' noises that baffled the artist.

"W-What?" he stuttered, cheeks gradually turning in colour. Not quite what he expected to hear. "Why … why would you want to go shopping with _me_? Isn't Greg coming back from Singapore in a few days, anyway? Why can't you hold off until then to go shopping?"

"Yeah. So?"

Matthew shifted awkwardly in his seat, picking up his glass of iced tea, twisting it around in a circle in his hands before putting it back down. There was a little sliver of liquid lining the bottom. "Sure he asked me to help you keep house while he was gone, but I don't think your husband would appreciate you going shopping with a guy fifteen years younger than you."

"I don't give a rat's tush 'bout what he thinks," Jade said brightly, green eyes lit with something a little more wicked than usual. "I've always wanted a gay best friend t'go shoppin' with."

Thick silence.

"… I can't believe you would even go there. I cannot _believe_ it."

"Well you had best start believin' soon then, lad," she muttered, giving Teresa another spoonful of baby mush that made Matthew want to retch. There was yet another cooing, 'num num num' sound of encouragement. "We're goin' shoppin' when I finish feedin' her. You better be ready t'carry a ton o' bags because I haven't gone shoppin' in _ages_. Anyway, Greg's credit card could stand t'shed a few pounds. Or tons. It depends on how 'm feelin'."

And this was when Matthew regretted ever agreeing to play house keeper for Greg and Jade, whom up until this point, he did not know was a shopaholic.

Had he known she was a shopaholic, he would have never agreed to do any of this.

_Ever._

* * *

Matthew had never gone shopping to the definition of a shopaholic's idea of 'shopping'. Up until this point, his idea of it was going to a bookstore or two and getting some new things to read, buy a few shirts and maybe even a new video game or some new CDs. Spend maybe half an hour in browsing around each place and then move on to the next. Very simple, very methodical.

Not go to stores that sold clothing he would have to work every day for a month straight to be able to afford.

And dressed in his baggy, faded black shorts and his tight-fitting Sex Pistols t-shirt (this wasn't the one he had stolen from Gilbert almost six years ago, this was one he had bought a few weeks ago because he had decided to retire the afore mentioned shirt), he did not feel like the proper candidate to be accompanying an awkwardly pretty woman in a breezy mint green sundress and her daughter. He felt as though he came across as painfully out of place, and he could feel the eyes of older men - men closer to Jade's age - lingering upon _him, _as if to say, 'is he a little brother? There's no way that could be her boyfriend; he's too young!'

Being the object of scrutiny of any kind made him nervous, that sort of on-the-spot feeling, and as he walked he found he was slowing down and dropping off to walk behind Jade instead of beside her. It was perfectly normal for a guy to be carrying six bags in either hand. Y'know, bags that were filled with dresses and lingerie - he did not go into the stores selling undergarments, no way in hell was that happening - and shoes and other things women wore. Some of them just baffled him completely.

Like pantyhose. Nylons. Stockin- actually, that was a lie. He liked stockings because sometimes they just went mid-thigh and when paired with a nice pair of high-heel shoes, they could be quite sexy.

He hated pantyhose, because frankly, they got in the way of being able to properly touch a woman's leg. Mind now, it was not very often he did that and when he did he would like to feel actual skin; warm, smooth and quite desirable. He hated the slippery-smooth feel of the material and the way it just felt synthetic. Fake things disgusted him and yes, skin felt so much nicer than that.

Pantyhose were just gross on so many levels, and in high school it had gotten in the way several times and had prevented some very desirable hook ups. One of them had been with one of the head cheerleaders, but it had been the only one that had been more along the lines of 'postponed' - this tall brunette from Jersey that he had a very, very casual relationship with (see: they were basically friends with benefits, and it was leaning a little bit closer to just the benefits part). Then, of course, sleeping with the other seven girls and two guys on the cheerleading squad just sort of followed suit because once you screwed around with the head cheerleader multiple times and weren't in a committed relationship…

A smug smirk surfaced on his face and he was thankful Jade didn't happen to catch it and question its reason. So many people had been surprised when they learned that quiet, kind, gentle little Matthew Williams slept around. The reaction he got was hilarious, and some of the students looked at him with a muted sort of amazement, as if it say, 'since when do kids in high school like him get laid?' It was one of those moments he was proud of when he really should not have been proud of it at all - three times he had nearly gotten a girl pregnant, which was the last thing he needed or wanted. And he also remembered being told once that nerds never got laid - unless they were exceptionally good looking.

_It was cold in Lars' bedroom but he didn't really notice the low temperature because of how pleasantly numbed his body was and from the way the older man was wrapped around him, keeping him toasty with his larger body. He was perfectly sated. There was the wonderful feeling of muted desire still lingering but not strong enough to stir him or truly make itself known, broad hands traced down over his ribs and the front of his flat abdomen and there were soft whisperings of Dutch in his ear and Matthew felt quite at home where he was. From the way he was whispering, the way his lips brushed against the shell of his ear, it was easy to tell the art teacher was smiling. Or smirking, more like it. Lars never really did smile all that much. The hands and lips tickling along his body skilfully avoided the area of his neck and collarbone, not only for sake of prudence, but also for the fact that he was still sore there from the 'accident' he had had. _

_There was no way in hell Matthew was going to tell Lars that it had anything to do with Jason - now, with his mother in hopsital, there was practically nothing he could do. The man was at his worst, and it was almost impossible to get a break from him. It was a rarity for him to stay the night in his own house. Thankfully Lars was partial to letting him stay whenever he wanted to, and he asked no questions (probably because he knew Matthew would side-step the inquiries with a practiced ease that unnerved him). _

_He winced when Lars pressed a gentle kiss to the crook of his neck and craned backwards a little when his art teacher pulled back. "Are you alright?" he muttered in a hushed voice, one that was gruff-sounding. Gray eyes flashed darkly, in a way that said he knew more than what he let on to, and the sixteen-and-a-half-year-old suddenly felt sickeningly unsteady and adrift. _

_Matt nodded, pulling away from his illicit lover and rolling onto his stomach, staring with accusatory eyes at the headboard before finally looking over at him. His pale fingers trailed along the slightly bruised skin - not Lars' doing, but his step-fathers - and he sighed, rolling his eyes and tilting his head a little to the side. "It's still tender," he hummed. "It's kind of unpleasant, y'know?"_

_Lars made a noise of agreement but he knew the Dutchman wasn't really listening to him - he never did, really. Not unless they were talking about something relevant to the man's interests. But that was alright; Matthew was willing to put up with that because who was he to give up good sex? If he was in love with him though, then it might have been a completely different story. Shallow relationships weren't too awful._

"_You know something funny?" Lars said suddenly. "I was talking with a friend. Last night, I think it was, or probably the night before. I don't really remember. But anyway, we were talking about nerds. And he turns around and says to me, 'nerds never get laid.' I mean, that's not _totally_ true. Some girls totally dig nerds, right? And guys, too."_

_Blinking slowly and cocking his head a little, Matthew decided against questioning what went on in his art teacher's smoke-filled head and he instead gave a tiny, wry smile. "Well, I would say some of them do," he said as he sat up a bit, drawing the blankets up over him so that only his face poked out from beneath the thin sheets. The Dutchman gave a little smirk. At the expression his stomach turned because _shit what if Lars thinks I'm acting like a little kid? Well that's no good _and he straightened a little, awkwardly running a hand through his hair and looking away. The room was blurry; he needed to put his glasses on soon or he was going to end up with a migrane. "I guess it all depends on the type of nerd?"_

"_Precisely," he said as he sat up, propping himself on his elbows. "You're a book, videogame and art nerd. Book and videogame nerds rarely get laid because the majority of them are too withdrawn to really care about sex. Art nerds, on the other hand, tend to be a little more free-spirited; a little bit easier-going. Well, some of them. And then the other bunch to tend to be recluses. You, my dear boy, are a little bit of both - thankfully." The grin he gave was practically feral and Matthew felt a pleasant sort of shiver go through him, right down along his spine and ended when his toes curled a little. _

_With a movement that was fluid and smooth, the Canadian was pulled into the older man's lap and he laughed, running his hands through messy, wild blonde hair before kissing him soundly. Lars' arms wrapped around his waist and smirked up at him. There was a dark look in his eyes that made the teenager shiver a little and slide down along him, kissing at his jaw. "Nerds don't get laid?" Matthew murmured, laughing and rolling his hips languidly, a smirk of his own forming at how Lars' eyes fluttered shut and his mouth opened a little. "Right on."_

And then Matthew walked right into Jade with a startled yelp, cheeks flushed with what he could thankfully pass off as the heat of the day, and not the slight, prickling warmth that came with the memory that was very ill-timed. The woman turned around and gave him an odd look, arching an eyebrow and pulling back a bit before shaking her head and facing forward once more.

'_To think,_' he thought as he spluttered apologies to her back, '_that all came from thinking about women and their pantyhose. Never again._'

When she told him to shut up he immediately did so and bit down on his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth and holding his breath for a few seconds before letting it out through his nose in a slow stream. That could have been very awkward. Well, it _was_ awkward. But it could have been awkward for _both _of them, not just him. Awkward moments made him feel … awkward.

Pacing himself a little, he fell back a few more steps as he walked slowly behind Jade, this time trying to keep his head clear of the thoughts that felt traitorous to him. It was uncomfortable, thinking about someone he had been with before while he was with someone else. Sure, he and Lars had never been a real couple, per se - the Canadian did not love the man, then or now, and it had simply been a stupid infatuation that his art teacher happened to share and had acted upon. It had been lust between them, plain and simple. Lars was a good lay and a fantastic artist, and he helped Matthew with his art outside of school and, well, he helped him with some other things. But it just felt wrong to think about him - not when he was with Alfred. Then again, that was actual love there, not something he was using to get away from someone else.

His cheeks started to get warmer and he cursed to himself, shaking his head a muttering until he noticed that the person walking a step or two behind him was looking at him kind of oddly. The urge to snap '_I'm not crazy don't even look at me_' was rising but he instead bit his tongue and focused on looking forward and not walking into Jade again.

They went into another few stores, but Matthew found he mainly waited outside the stores while his landlady shopped around. He was growing bored with it, and fast. Wasn't there only so much shopping you could do in one day? She had already been in at least twenty stores, maybe a few more. This was madness. Blisters were making themselves known on his feet; he was warm and sticky - so much for having showered. Woven cardboard handles on the bags he had been enlisted to carry were blistering his hands as well, and each time he tried to readjust his grip on them the ones on the outside started to slide. A groan of irritation left him and he set some of them down on the sidewalk.

Considering calling Alfred to try and pass the time, he took out of his phone and weighed it in his free hand, staring at the screen before putting it away, head falling back against the brick wall behind him. His boyfriend would be seeing his therapist right now, so there was no sense in calling him.

While he knew he could text him, Alfred's psychiatrist was far stricter in terms of technology in his office than what McKnight was. Tino V. - he could not remember the man's last name for the life of him, but it was Finnish, long and full of accented letters - was a tiny, docile young man fresh out of university but with an excellent list of credientials and he specified in drug rehabilitation. He had a sympathetic ear, a kind disposition and a terrifyingly volatile temper. His boyfriend had commented, after their third session together, that he reminded him of a particularly angry Viking. Or at least he turned into a particularly angry Viking when he caught Alfred using his phone in the middle of a session.

From thereon in, the tiny man that had now reached scary status in the opinion of the lawyer. And he was frighteningly vigilant in keeping technology out of his patient's hands while he was there.

And he was apparently damn good at it.

Phone weighing down his pockets, thoughts drifting, Matthew scanned his eyes along the storefronts. How could he have let Jade talk him down and into this sort of mess? Busy with wallowing at first, he failed to notice the one interesting place on the entire block. A small store neatly tucked away amongst the newer forefaces of the buildings. A man dressed in black ducked in there, but otherwise there was no traffic to and from the place. Then, finally, he settled his eyes on a little knick-knack store across the way and his eyes lit up. If anything could save him from a demise at the hands of boredom, it was a knick-knack store because that was the sort of place he could spend hours upon hours in, fiddling with all the little doodads lying about, reading through old magazines that were piled up for resale. And the money he could spend in those places without even thinking bordered on outlandish.

Bundling the bags in his hands once more, he edged his way into the store - a large, modernized building with bowl chairs that probably came from Ikea en lieu of some expensive designer which the store owners would claim they came from - as he peered over racks and around other shoppers. It wasn't overly busy, but because of the walls in the layout it was hard to see who was in there. Trying to locate Jade in a three-level clothing store was going to be an adventure in itself.

When he finally did find her, she laughed and just shook her head, instructing him to just leave her bags down at the cash register with the girl working there; they were almost finished shopping, and there was only one more store she actually wanted to go into just yet.

And so that was how Matthew ended up in what had to be one of the creepiest little knick-knack shops Manhattan had to offer. It was dark and dingy, and it smelt musty - it was a place time had forgotten and it had been left behind by the citizens of a city that was progressively moving forward each and every day. This shop, on the other hand, was sliding further and further back into decades that had been easily pushed aside in the rush to find newer toys to play with and better technologies.

Five floors of narrow rooms and rickety floors and Matthew felt oddly at home in a place like this. The woman at the counter near the door greeted him with a bright smile and a friendly 'hello', an odd contrast to the gloominess that pervaded the establishment. She was a plump woman, possibly Greek. Very motherly and stern in appearance all at once with her thick steel gray hair pulled into a taut bun and her sack-like sunflower dress. And he returned the greeting with an equal friendliness and a smile of his own, ghosting through the main level easily. There was not that much to be found - just heavy furniture that could not make it up over the stairs; it was more than just an odds and ends store. It was an antiques shoppe, situated in perhaps the oddest area possible.

Musty sofas, dust tables and mirrors with rusted backings lined the walls and were stacked throughout the rooms of the main floor. There was a back wall lined with globes, empty mason jars, fake and faded flowers in chipped vases. Dilipidation was beginning to make itself known. Age was winning a fighting battle, as was neglect. It was a depressing feeling and he could feel it settling on his shoulders and resonating in his chest as he ran his hands along the things he touched, _needed_ to touch. He could feel the grit and grime that had built up on the surfaces of the seats. It made his fingers slick with the sort of grease only dust could produce.

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he made his way to the exit, stopping and turning only when he heard the floorboards overhead groaning from the weight of another. Matthew glanced to the stairs that led up. He hummed thoughtfully.

Maybe he would take a look through the rest of the store?

Nothing of any real interest was found on the second and third floor - just more things, like vases and smaller tables, trunks, paintings, wash boards - but on the fourth, that was where everything he would ever need was. Filled with books. Endless stacks that teetered dangerously this way and that, double rows on bookshelves. There were old movie posters, encased in dusty glass sleeves, piled against the free section of the wall. A chandelier hung in the center of the room - a tiny remake of the one from the Paris Opera House, or at least that was what it looked like to him.

Chairs were arranged in a little circle in the center of the room, as a sort of reading space. Perhaps they allowed people to browse through the books before buying one? Matthew hesitated before entering the room but he did all the same, ducking in quietly and making a beeline for the nearest stack, dropping down into a chair and picking up the book on top of the pile. Its cover felt old and velvety; that feeling of ancient leather dirtying his fingers.

"Hello, Matthew Williams."

Unchecked, a startled yelp left him and the book clattered to the floor as he jerked backwards. His elbow hit the pile of books and they toppled with a crash.

Across from him sat a wiry man with a ghostly face, dark eyes shadowed and burning. A complete crypt-keeper of a guy. Matthew swallowed and stood, backing away.

"No need to shy away. Come, come. Sit, sit," he crooned in an accented voice, sweet and beguiling, the corner of his mouth spasming. "I wish to exchange few words with you, yes?"

"I don't need to sit for you to talk to me," Matthew spat icily. "I can stand, you can sit."

A cold sweat had broken out across his neck, trickled down his back and was chilling his spine. He was trembling now, and his chest felt like it had been wrapped in a vice. His heart hammered against his ribs. This man - he had never seen him. Never seen him and his pale, pale face; his greasy black hair and his thin shoulders, thin body, encased by an immaculate black suit. His hands were folded primly upon his knee and he rose an eyebrow as he regarded the artist with his bottomless eyes. They looked like they were all pupil and no iris. Black and that was it. From the cuff of the man's sleeve a diamond encrusted watch peeked out. His gut dropped - this man, clearly, was not hurting for any amount of money.

Laughter followed his statement, and the black-clad man stood and approached him, a wicked look taking over his reaperish features. "So hostile," he murmured, observing the Canadian as though he were a specimen beneath a jar. "So pretty yet so _hostile_." Matthew's cheeks flushed and he gave an indignant snort. "I see now what he sees in you."

"Excuse me," Williams snapped, "but who the hell are you, exactly?"

The man smirked, eyes darkening. He gave a short, stiff sort of bow. "My name is Pavel Otčenáš," said the man. His eyes never once left Matthew's own nervous ones as he sat back down in a chair that was closer to him; he twisted his body around to look up at the young man. "I am an, ah, how shall I put this? So complicated, your English language. I do not like it. I am an _acquaintance _of Mr. Alfred Jones'. We have known each other these past several years."

Something about this he did not like - maybe it had to do with the way it was said. Said in a way full of implications that made him nervous because what was Alfred doing hanging around someone like thi-

His expression faltered and the artist pulled back, looking at Pavel in a side-long way. "Y-You know Alfred?"

Pavel's smile widened and Matthew felt uneasy. "Did I not just _say_ that?" he asked in a lilting voice, cocking his head to the side. Fingers down by his side twitched and he was suddenly fighting the urge to physically wipe that maddening smile off of the European man's waxy face. Then the smile morphed into a look of mock concern; something else lurked beneath it. Something deadly, malicious.

"How has he been doing since he has not used cocaine? Such a dreadful, painful process, yes?"

"What? H-How do you know abo-"

And then Matthew went rigid. The only people that knew about Alfred's addiction were he, Chris, Arthur and his therapist. No one else knew. Unless … the colour drained from his face and he made a choked noise, panicking. Oh fuck no. This was the last person he needed to run into right now. Or ever. While this was a person he had wanted to give a piece of his mind for a while now, it was simply a dream. A fucked up little power trip of a fantasy. He would have never acted upon it - he was too scared to.

Pavel was manic now, eyes glistening and his face practically split in two - it was like looking at a reanimated corpse. Oh, God, he wanted to be sick and despite how old the carpet beneath his feet was it was too nice to vomit on.

"You are a _very _stupid young man," Pavel Otčenáš chided, waggling a finger as he stood, rakish body unfurling with liquid ease. The man was like a snake. Lacing his hands together behind him the man approached Matt cautiously, like one would when nearing a cornered animal, and the Canadian found himself backing up subconsciously. Indigo eyes narrowed and he was wishing he still carried a pocket knife on him - Manhattan was making him soft, and that was final. His back collided with a bookcase. Fingers slithered under his chin and he found himself staring down at the slightly shorter man. Inky black eyes regarded him closely, he could smell his breath - rancid - and yellow, crooked teeth were bared in a mocking smile. He was practically a walking corpse.

"So very, very stupid, yes?"

Matthew found himself nodding.

Pavel just cackled, eyes narrowed and morphing into a hateful expression while his lips twisted into a sneer. "_You _are at fault for this," he hissed, fingers sliding from beneath his chin to his throat. Matthew's pulse quickened. His thumb moved gently along his jugular; the man could probably feel his pulse and how it was racing out of control. "I do not _like _having a valuable source of income being taken away from me, little boy. I will not stand for this."

The hand tightened suddenly and Matthew made a choked noise, kicking out forward. The movement was easily side-stepped; the drug dealer had been expecting it. A smirk crossed Pavel's warped face. He made another kick; again it was done in vain and his head was slammed back against the wood. Stars danced in front of his vision that was slowly beginning to darken in patches. Despite his wiry frame he was strong; he had the advantage of broad hands.

"Once I get rid of the blockage," Pavel murmured against his ear, pressing upwards on Matthew's throat, "then I needn't worry."

Tears sprung to his eyes as they slipped shut. He couldn't breathe. Oh, fuck, he couldn't breathe. Clawing at the hand holding him in place, he dug his short nails into the drug dealer's flesh and tore them downwards, but he was given a firm shake and slammed back again. A brass bookend collided with his skull and pain ripped through where contact was made. His eyes rolled up in the back of his head and he felt his knees give out. Something warm trickled down the back of his neck.

Murder was the objective, and Matthew Williams realized he wouldn't be leaving this place unless it was down over the stairs in a body bag.

Unexpectedly the older man jerked away with a startled yelp, both of them jolting as Matthew's phone rang - the volume was up on one of the highest settings. The hand had left his throat. Scrambling away from the would-be murderer, he vaulted himself over one of the chairs and crashed onto all fours with a strangled groan as his hands hit the wood first. His foot had hooked on the edge of the chair. Jamming the phone between his shoulder and chin, he babbled a 'hello?' as he staggered backwards, trying to right himself as the world continued to swirl. A sudden rush of oxygen back to the brain. Pavel was livid.

"_Hey gorgeous,_" Alfred laughed brightly on the other line. "_I just left therapy. Are you still helping Jade out?_"

"This is a bad time," Matthew spluttered, wheezing, edging away steadily as Pavel approached him. There was a murderous intent written all over his face. The backs of his knees collided with a low table and he jerked, stepping on top of it to get around. It cracked beneath his weight and he dropped to the floor, scrambling backwards before standing again. "This is a really fucking bad time."

"_O-Oh, shit. Well, sorry? Want me to call you back in a little while then?_" There was an awkward laugh from Alfred's end, and then before he could say anything else, Matthew cut him off:

"Alfred, who's Pavel Otčenáš?"

There was a stunned silence, both on the phone and from the drug dealer in front of him. The Eastern European man stopped dead, the colour draining from his face as he stared wide-eyed. Shock was the only thing that had stopped him. It lasted for only a second or two. Blood rushed into his cheeks then and, with a strangled curse in a language Matthew had never before heard, Pavel made a lunge for him.

"_Matthew, tell me where the _fuck_ you are right now or I-_"

He crashed to the floor with a yell, the phone dropping from his hand and hitting the floor at a second before he did and there was a very real weight pinning him to the musty carpet. A flash of silver from the corner of his eyes alerted him, but a little too late and before he could do anything there was a blade pressed against his throat. It was a sharpened little dagger that was meant for easy concealment. Pavel straddled him, pressing the blade down harder and he felt his skin break beneath it. A strangled sob left him at the pain that shot through his neck.

If he moved, his throat would be slit. But the converse was just as bad - if he did nothing, if he didn't fight back, his throat would still get sliced in the end. There was no way he could win this one unscathed. From where he was he could hear Alfred calling out his name from the phone. Prevalent in his voice was a slight hysteria.

Keeping the blade pressed firmly against his throat, Pavel's eyes never left him as he leant to the side, picking up the phone. He pressed the call-end button and then pitched the phone against the wall with a force that rocked their bodies. It hit and there was a crunching sound that made his gut turn to lead. Matthew gave another strangled sob; blood was running down his neck from the wound and it was pooling at the collar of his shirt. Sweat covered him and he shivered.

"P-P-_Please_, I-"

"Please what?" the drug dealer hissed, leering at him. The blade dug in further. He twitched at the smarting burn that went through him at the sensation and tried to jerk away, dragging the blade down further. The gash went from the center of his throat down to his collarbone, just missing his jugular. He gasped, eyes widening and he arched, leg jerking. "Do not kill you? Is that what you were going to ask me, little boy?"

A whine of desperation was his only means of replying.

Laughter left the drug dealer and he pulled back, taking the knife with him, letting it sit loosely in his hand for a brief moment. "You are such a pathetic little creature." Matthew blinked, tears rolling from his eyes and down over his white cheeks as his chest rose and fell rapidly; irregularly.

Then he reacted blindly, instinct driving him at the humiliation and terror that filled him.

Lunging forward, he slammed his elbow across Pavel's jaw. A strangled screech left the raven-haired man and he was sent off to the side, a sickening crack emitting from the bone. As he opened his hands to catch himself before hitting the floor, the knife flew from his grasp and slid across the bare patch of floor to come to rest by a wall - and end up being completely concealed by a book shelf. And once more, something related to books had managed to save his life.

Pavel spat a clot of blood onto carpet and, when he tried to make another jolt for the Canadian, Matthew clenched his hand into a fist and just swung without aiming for anything in particular. His fist caught the man in the jaw again. This time, instead of waiting for him to react, Matthew jumped forward and grabbed him by the front of his shirt and slammed him down against the floor. Fear flickered across Pavel's face. And the Canadian found a reason in this to smile, eyes darkening and he sneered at the man that was now cowering beneath him. Blood streamed from the corner of his mouth. Clenching his aching hand into a fist, he slammed it down into Pavel's face without really thinking. Hot liquid spread across his knuckles and a startled, agonized noise left the drug dealer.

Now he could be thankful for the fights he had gotten in while he had been in high school; while he had been living on the streets. Sometimes he really could find something worth being grateful for when it came to his former street life.

Punching him felt really good, Matthew decided, somewhat madly. Pain flared up along his own arm and each time he rammed his fist into the drug dealer's face, a tortured noise left the man he was pinning to the floor. This was sweet.

Only when it felt like his own hand was broken did he stop. There was a mess of sanguine on Pavel's face and his eyes were shut - but he was still breathing, although shallowly. For a moment he felt a creeping sense of horror wash over him, but when he felt the burning pain in his neck once more the horrified emotion left him and he stood. He was still bleeding and steadily, both from his neck and the back of his head. Vertigo had set in; he dropped to the floor and crawled away from the man before collapsing on his front, trying to breathe. Matthew tried to stand again, blood loss making him queasy and light headed. His knuckles were purple, swollen and blood splattered. The drug dealer was unconscious, blood pouring steadily from his nose. A twitch went through his limp frame. He went slack again. This time he managed to remain standing and then he bolted.

Leaving the room without looking back, he all but ran down the four flights of stairs, wiping the blood from his hand into the material of his shorts as he went. Quietness was no longer a concern for him. Rounding a corner near the second floor, he slammed into a dresser and scrambled to keep his balance. A vase flew to the floor and shattered. It sounded like a gunshot in the unnerving silence of the shop. When he burst onto the main floor, he skidded to a halt and looked about him, eyes wild before he managed to take a shuddering breath and straighten up, smoothing out his shirt until he noticed he was alone. He slumped. The woman was no longer at the desk near the front door, but he didn't care he didn't care _he didn't care._

He just needed to get the hell out of there.

(And find Jade, but for some reason that felt like a very minor detail.)

Hand throbbing, head pounding, blood caked to his searing neck and his appearance dishevelled, Matthew lurched out through the front door and smack into a passerby. He looked at the older man with a bewildered expression. Sunlight burned at his retinas from the sudden adjustment of near-dark to brightness. The elderly man, dressed in a business suit and carrying a black leather briefcase, turned up his nose at the distraught artist and continued on his way. A bark of laughter left Matthew and he ran his hands through his hair, trying to breathe when he couldn't. No matter what he did he could not breathe.

When he managed to find Jade - still in the store he had left her - she was sat down on a chair outside of a dressing room, on the phone. Red hair spilt down over the hand she had placed on the top of her head. Her face was white and drawn and her knee bounced steadily - an anxious gesture. Matthew approached her, and when he tried to speak his voice faltered and gave out. She looked up to him and relief filtered through her expression. "He's here," she choked out.

Instead he sat on the floor, back to the side of her chair and ran a violently trembling hand through his hair. Even now he could not relax.

"Jesus Christ, Matthew," Jade said, getting down from the chair and kneeling down in front of the Canadian. She took his pallid face in between her hands and peered closely. He balked at their sudden proximity and jerked back, panicked. She hushed him gently, a soft reassuring sound and swept her hand across his forehead. "It's okay, luv," she murmured. "It's okay."

Matthew opened his mouth again to speak but found he could say nothing at all. Instead, he just shook his head and dropped forward, head colliding with the woman's shoulder. Arms wound around his shoulders. He was trembling all over and he couldn't stop. A sob hitched itself in his throat. He broke finally and she held him there against her body despite the blood getting on her shoulder and clothing, running her hand through his hair and whispering softly to him until he quieted down into a snivelling, hiccoughing mess.

"Where is he now?" Jade asked in a low voice. The Canadian realized, save for two concerned employees - one of them holding a babbling and blissfully oblivious Teresa - there was no one else on the floor. Alfred must have called her. That would also explain why she knew who 'he' was.

"Unconcious on the floor," Matthew somehow managed. "I broke his nose; might have done something to his jaw. I 'unno. But my hand is fucked. So's my neck and th'back of my head."

"Oh, darlin'," she whispered, bringing him closer and practically sitting him in her lap. Arms remained around him. This caused the young man to blush and he ducked his head. Jade chuckled. "I think Alfred might want t'talk t'you."

Glancing up, he licked his lips and then nodded. "O-Okay," he muttered, accepting the cell phone with his other hand, his good one. His bad hand rested limply in his lap. It was a mess. He pressed the slim Blackberry between his ear and shoulder and took a breath to steady himself. "Hey."

"_Matthew? Is everything alright? What happened? Where were you? I tri-_"

"One question at a time, Princess," said Matthew with a dry laugh. His head was resting on Jade's shoulder, and from the corner of his eye he saw a man in a uniform standing by the two employees, watching the two on the floor with a blank expression. His stomach turned. "I'm alright. Well, my hand and neck aren't. And I feel sick. But otherwise I'm just fine."

He heard a heavy exhalation from the other line. "_He didn't try to ki-_"

"Yeah, he did."

There was silence. It stretched on until he started to feel uncomfortable and Matthew went as far as checking the screen of the phone to make sure he had not been disconnected.

"_I'm sorry, Mattie_," Alfred whispered, voice choked. "_This is all my fault; I should never have-_"

"Never what? Agreed to going out with me? Became my friend? Fuck off; it's a pile of shit and you know it," he hissed in a low voice. "This isn't your fault. It was a matter of being at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Alfred's silence was a heavy, uncomfortable one. Tears worked themselves back into Matthew's eyes and he slumped against Jade, burying his face in her shoulder as he found it was getting harder and harder to breathe. "_I … I'm going to go now, alright? Um. Yeah. Do you want me to call you later or …?_"

"I'll come over," Matthew said softly. The NYPD officer was approaching him now and he sighed. Suddenly his cheeks were on fire and he squirmed, looking away and biting his lower lip. "Um, I … I love you."

And then he hung up the phone with a huff, Alfred's quiet response warming him in a way that made him giddy and made everything feel a little bit better than before because they rarely said those words, but when they did, it meant something wonderful.

Kneeling down in front of him, the police officer watched him carefully. "You're going to be needed to testify in court against that man; there's already enough evidence built up against him. He's wanted on two murder charges, possession of drugs with the purpose of trafficking, multiple accounts of assault causing bodily harm. The list is extensive and there's going to be a few more things added to it."

Matthew's face contorted into an expression of confusion. "You mean to say-"

The police officer's smile was wry. "Bastard should be in custody; he managed to get bail. He's due to go on trial in about a month," he said flatly. "Mr. Williams, I hope you have a lawyer, just in case; you'll only be needed for one testimonial and the district attorney will be on your side, essentially, but you should have one there with you for the day of your testimony."

Glancing down to Jade's phone, Matthew couldn't help but smirk coldly at this. He had three options in terms of lawyers, and finally he felt at ease as he shifted himself out of Jade's grip and, somehow, into a standing position. His legs were weak and the clothing store twisted in lazy, looping circles. He placed his fingers to his neck and they came away with a fresh, thick layer of blood - he would need stitches, surely. A glance back to Jade and she was wiping the red liquid from her bare shoulder.

"There's a _very_ distinct possibility I have a lawyer at my disposal for this."

* * *

Here you go, guys! And lmao before anyone says anything about the flashback scene with Lars, I just want to make a small comment - honestly, I kind of argued with myself for about an hour over whether or not I should keep it in. But in the end I said fuck it; it's just a contrast between the relationship Matthew had with Lars, and what he has now with Alfred; there have already been a good few contrasts to his relationship with Gilbert, and I've been itching to write this scene for ages. SO YAY A SOMEWHAT OUT OF PLACE SCENE.

ANYWAY thanks for reading, all the comments and faves and love and just sdhgbdjgg ILU ALL.

-SMOOSHES-


	28. Chapter 28

**CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.**

All things considered, Matthew seemed to handle the near death experience fairly well. Maybe a little _too _well. Two sleepless nights, an internally bruised hand, ninety-six stitches in his neck and the back of his head, a tiny bit of Demerol for about three days and then the guy was acting as though nothing had happened. He never brought it up; side-stepped the problem if Alfred mentioned it even in passing. Acting like this was probably his chief coping method, and it seemed to be working out pretty well for him.

His boyfriend, on the other hand, wasn't handling it very well.

There was the whole denial stage - that totally did not happen, you're just imagining things - and he was perfectly content to pretend it didn't happen. That lasted for … about an hour. And then he spent a good three or four days steeping in a pit of self-loathing, just steadily cursing himself for being at fault for what had happened. As the anger slowly ebbed away from him it was replaced by a stomach-churning guilt and nervousness. Despite this constant worry over his well-being, he didn't take it to extremes in making sure he was safe. He texted him a little more often than usual; he picked him up and took him to and from work, or if he couldn't do that, he had asked Matthew if he would get Gilbert to do that for him (needless to say when Beilschmidt found out the reasoning for this, he was livid - surprisingly not with the lawyer - and he gladly accepted the request to drive his friend to and from work when Alfred could not).

Even though the additional doting didn't bother him - in fact, it sort of pleased Matthew in a wily sort of way that made him feel like a prick - the Canadian just brushed it off, laughing quietly when his lover expressed his anxieties and would tell him not to worry about it; Pavel was in custody and there would be no bail hearing, especially because he was up on breach of probation charges, additional assault charges and now attempted murder. There was no way anything was going to happen. He was perfectly safe where he was.

- Unless Pavel had someone working for him on the outside, as did most drug dealers from Matthew's experience in dealing with them, and if that was the case he was _fucked. _

(But there was no way he was going to mention this to Alfred; something like that could completely shatter him and the Canadian did not want to test his lover's emotional fragility because, no matter how strong he said he was, Matt knew better than to trust the American's well-practiced bravado when it came to these sorts of things.)

Despite these reassurances, and despite how at-ease Matthew seemed to be with what had happened to him - the lawyer's only guess was that a year and a half of homelessness had hardened him to these sorts of things, because it was _not _normal, by anyone's standards, to be completely unfazed by it - Alfred still felt miserable. Too bad, he thought, that he didn't have any coping methods on par to what the Canadian had going for him.

(And he was too busy childishly indulging in that misery to notice the way Matthew kept a little closer to him when they were out than what he usually did; that he was a lot jumpier; that he had started to carry a small pocket knife on him again.)

Things went like this for some time, a little bit longer than what the lawyer thought necessary. And it ate at him, knowing what had happened was his fault. Or that it at least could have been prevented. Because it could have been, right?

It was when Alfred entertained the idea of them breaking up that Matthew gave in and sat the man down in the arm chair that overlooked the city, crouching before him on the ottoman and pressing forward, resting his weight on the lawyer's knees as he looked up at the man. He bore no expression, indigo eyes flat behind his glasses while his lips were slack. It was as if he had not understood what was said, but then he did.

The look that had crossed his lover's face made his chest tighten as his throat burn and he felt like an excuse of a person - '_You know, maybe I'm too much of a … I don't know. Too much of a risk for you to be around. I guess? Maybe we should just stay as friends, cause that could be safer for you and maybe people wouldn't want to fuck you up as much if we were … just friends.' _Matthew's face had practically crumpled when he said this and it felt like someone had sucker punched him in the gut.

Matthew then proceeded to politely and very calmly call him a gigantic fucking idiot unlike any other gigantic fucking idiot he had ever met in his life and then told him that something as stupid and as trivial as that would not push him away, or work as a reason to be pushed away.

And then Alfred felt really stupid for bringing it up. Exceptionally stupid. He muttered something incoherent, slumped down in the chair and looked out the window without actually _seeing_ anything. The artist, on the other hand, stayed seated but inched closer, as close as he could; took their hands and kept them clasped, and put his head down on his lover's lap because there wasn't really anything to say.

After that, the subject was never breached and Alfred felt guilty (just another dumping on the conscience) for even considering it.

So, really, nothing changed.

These were the thoughts that were keeping him awake during the hours he should have been sleeping through. Grumbling beneath his breath and poking his head up over the sleeping man's shoulder, Alfred eyed the bedside clock in Mattie's bedroom. The red numbers read a bit after three-thirty in the morning and he rubbed his face, pulling at his hair with a mounting frustration until his scalp burned and tears prickled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous - the third night in a row that he couldn't get to sleep before four or five in the morning. And he would be awake again by seven or eight feeling wide-awake, the process would be repeated the next night and he felt like a transport truck had nailed him, dragged him along through a few states and then said, "Oops, time to drop off the excess cargo."

But he had to admit that it was better than the several nights during the previous two weeks where he had barely slept at all - sometimes not even shutting his eyes, just staring at the ceiling and watching the shadows creeping slowly from one side to the other, marking the night's monotonous passage.

He had done some work at the Bobst Library, gone to the gym and then tried sleeping, It didn't work. So he said fuck it and showed up on his boyfriend's doorstep at almost eleven at night, in nothing more than a pair of pyjama pants and demanded that he sleep there for the night. Maybe being in a bed with another person, someone he could lie down with and hold onto, would make him feel a bit better and maybe he would actually get to sleep at a respectable hour this time around. Matthew, who had been bewildered by this - they usually spent their Friday, sometimes Saturday, and Monday nights together, even if it was just showing up late and announcing they were staying the night - stepped aside and yawned, stating he was going back to bed.

Alfred had plopped down on his boyfriend's sofa for half an hour, caught the last little bit of 'The Shawshank Redemption', watched a few infomercials and then the first little bit of 'The Black Dahlia' before crawling into bed with him. The clock had read twelve-thirty and, with eyes that were finally beginning to droop, he figured that would be a good time to try and go to sleep.

The plan, as brilliant as it had been at the time of conceiving it, was a complete failure. Even though he was curled around the smaller man, arms wrapped around his mid-section and Matthew's hand gripping his elbow, tightly in even his sleep, he was still too awake for anything other than thinking. So now here he was on a Wednesday night - or Thursday morning, really, considering the time - praying for the sleep that had been eluding him since the weekend. His eyes burned and he was physically exhausted. Mentally, on the other hand, he was beyond alert. His mind was hyperactive, thoughts scattered everywhere and lurking in corners of his subconscious that he did not want it to.

Groaning, he curled in closer despite how warm it was in the room, pressing his forehead against the exposed shoulder. Matthew didn't stir; he was all means of the phrase out for the count and completely oblivious to his lover's insomniac plight.

_Lucky bastard, _the District Attorney thought, mostly lacking in any venom. Just a little bit of soul-curdling envy.

Alfred shut his eyes, breathing in slowly, trying to empty his thoughts and relax the way he had learned. It was what his therapist in England had shown him - the young woman frequently practiced yoga, so she thought some parts of it would be good to introduce into his life and all that shit - but even that wasn't working. He was acutely aware of the sound of traffic just beyond the other houses in the neighbourhood; sirens occasionally sounded out from the general direction of the traffic; there was a ticking clock on the wall that was driving him absolutely batty; the pillow was too thick and it felt like his head was sinking; there was a spring on the mattress digging into his hip and now that he had lost most of the weight he had gained he could feel it a little too well; he wanted to roll over onto his other side but he still wanted to lie against Matthew's back because he liked the way their skin was pressed together; the fridge was making a buzzing noise and it _would not shut the fuck up already oh my God I want to sleep you stupid fucking fridge but you are not letting it happen why are you not letting me sleep I do not appreciate this_.

"I just wanna sleep," he whined in a barely-there voice, kissing the bare shoulder before him and running his hand down along the younger man's side, stopping when he got to the hem of his pyjama pants and he just kept it there, the tips of his fingers trailing along his hipbone and doodling mindlessly against blanket-warmed skin. He did it as though feeling the presence before him would relax him enough; it was impossible to deny that the Canadian's presence had a soothing sort of quality at times - sure, ninety percent of the time, he was this caustic little ingrate that lacked any sort of mental filter, but that ten percent of that time, he was quiet and gentle, lacking any and all possible harshness; languid and easy to please like a sun-stunned cat.

As he watched the sleeping man, he sort of wondered if maybe that was what Matthew had been like when he had been a teenager. Before the proverbial shit had hit the fan.

And that was when he decided to say fuck it all because he had had enough of this bullshit.

Alfred, not quite reluctantly, rolled away from his boyfriend and sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands as he laced his fingers through his hair. Sleeping wasn't going to be happening anytime soon, he figured, stretching languidly before getting up and crossing the room to Matthew's closet. He glanced back warily to make sure he was dead asleep, just to reassure himself, as he opened the doors and reached for one of his pairs of jeans, stripping down and hauling them on. Some of his clothing had made a little journey to his closet, and vice-versa. No surprise there.

Everything was in pitch-darkness and as he slowly navigated his way through the inky black he stubbed his toe on a table, slapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a curse, and he angrily flicked on a light switch. A hiss left him at the light that filled the room.

Blind for a moment he stood there uselessly, blinking his watering eyes several times before entering the kitchen and rooting through a junk drawer for a piece of paper and a pen. If he was going to go out, he might as well leave a note for him just in case he woke up. Scribbling down the first thing that came to mind, Alfred pocketed his cell phone. On his way to the door, he dropped back into the artist's bedroom and set the note down on the little end table beside him, propping it up against the stupid Lamp Matthew seemed to have some extreme emotional attachment to.

If he even tried to touch the Lamp, he was given that _look. _That 'touch it and I will castrate you and your family' look that _still_ unnerved him. And then there had been the time back in February when he suggested Matthew get a new Lamp - this one had peeling paint chips, it was cracked in some places, and frankly, a frayed power cord was never a very good thing. Or safe for that matter. At first Matthew had not reacted - had just watched his friend in a state of disturbing calm that, by this point in time, Jones had interpreted as a very bad thing given his volatile temper. There had been no ill consequence to speak of, really; by way of reaction, the Canadian had bluntly told him to leave and _never_ come back.

The American had retaliated by bouncing around the young man's apartment, singing 'They're Taking the Hobbits to Isengard' and slowly destroying any respect Matthew might have had for him.

Chuckling, he shook his head; trust him to have the weirdest attachments. This particular relationship included. He paused before leaning down and giving him a firm kiss on the cheek, smiling at how he still didn't even stir. When Matthew Williams slept, he _slept_. Another gentle kiss to the cheek, affectionately nuzzling the skin with his nose, and the DA left the room.

He had absolutely no idea where he was going to go or what he was going to do while he was gone, but there was no way he was just going to lie in bed and bitch to himself.

Why lie in bed when he could go out for a walk and bitch to himself about not being able to sleep? A sharp jingling noise came from his pocket as he walked; he had his debit card and plenty of change, thank God - maybe he could stop and get something to eat while he was out. Nothing sucked harder than being out for a nice, early morning walk and being confronted all of a sudden by an angry, growling, hungry stomach.

And it was a quiet night, he noticed as left the apartment and wandered down the road, hands in his back pockets. The perfect kind of night to be out on.

It was also a night unlike any other he had seen since living in Lowell, just outside the city limits on his father's estate - a place that took half an hour of driving through private land to reach. It had been eleven years since he had been to Lowell; years since he had seen his father - once his parents divorced and he had been accepted to Harvard, his father left New York and returned to Massachusetts. But the summers he spent in Lowell were probably the best ones of his childhood.

Some summer nights, when he was still living there before his mother got that job with Vogue and they moved to Manhattan, he and Arthur would wander down the laneway with a soccer ball or a football and they would spend hours just kicking or throwing the ball to one another. They would spend hours upon hours just talking; being kids. Sometimes Arthur would coerce him into disappearing into the woods with him - where the Brit would spend hours upon hours when he was to spend the allotted summer months with his father - and they would navigate every inch of it, declaring certain areas to be prime tree forts.

And then there were other times when they would just sort of stay there, sitting in the tree house they had built when Al had turned thirteen. Alfred would look through his endless pile of comics and plane books, constructing wooden Hurricanes and Spitfires, hanging them from the branch that extended through the ceiling. Arthur, on the other hand, would sit there in his own little world and draw creatures that fascinated his little brother to no end. Other times he would tell the younger stories that would keep him up all night; stories filled with magic and terror and romance. Stories his father would scoff at and would tell his youngest son to forget about, because fairytales never came true in the real world and filling his head with fluff would do him no good whatsoever.

Steps slow and even, he exhaled slowly, eyes burning and his throat growing strained as he thought about each little thing. He was cold. Chilled, more like it. Even though it was August, he wore the jacket Matthew had given him; the nights were beginning to grow cooler again as September was only days away, and even though it was only in the sixties, the prickle of cool air sent a shiver along his body.

Despite being able to hear the sound of traffic in the distance, there was nothing in the vicinity that he could see. Not even any taxis. It had been a long time since he had been somewhere like this - a big, big city that supposedly never slept a wink - and had seen it so slowed down to the point of an industrial coma. If he shut out the noise and focused on the night, it would seem as though the city had been abandoned; emptied of all its residents and nusiances. A modern ghost town. All of the streets were submerged in an inky darkness that was only permeated by the dull glow of street lights, by the green-gold-red alternating stop lights at the end of the road, their lights almost offensive in contrast to the dulled hues surrounding him.

This was fantastic; should he choose, he could probably lie down in the middle of the road, stare up at the starless sky and just breathe; do nothing, be nothing other than a shell for a few moments until it felt like he was melting, every inch of flesh, muscle, organ and blood, all of it just oozing into the cracks in the pavement. He could melt and be nothing or be someone else or be in another place, year or time - even if was only for a few minutes; a few minutes was better than nothing at all.

He didn't have to be himself. He didn't have to be _anyone_. He didn't matter because he was only one person out of the almost nine million living in the metropolis - in retrospect, he had _never_ mattered. He might have mattered to someone else - well, he _did _amount to something in the eyes of a handful of people, and perhaps the most significant person of all, and that was all that was important - but it was in the big picture where he didn't count.

And because of this sudden influx of incoherent and fluid thoughts that were running rampant one after the other, Alfred felt so utterly lost and insignificant in the city he called home these past eleven years. At the same time, it had never seemed as grand as this; never as beautiful or as humbling. Being nothing didn't bother him; it did not faze him in the way it would have before.

This was the first time he had felt in love with New York City. Or at least the first time in a long time; and it wasn't even when the place was in its usual state which was the funny part of all of it.

Laughing at the absurdity of this, the lawyer just stretched his arms over his head and turned his palms upward, facing the muted black sky.

Seeing the city dead like this was a treat to him and maybe that was why he managed to fall back in love with it just as quickly as he had fallen out. It was nice to be able to walk the streets without bumping into someone, without the smell of exhaust hanging in the air, without having horns and advertisements and people babbling away on their cell phones filling his ears. No noise pollution. He was so used to being caught in the rush hours of the day, every morning when he left and every evening when he got home; it would only get worse once school started up. And then, once he got back into the court system, working it would be even crazier. So much traffic and chaos. Working from home was fantastic, and he was going to miss it dearly.

Humming lightly to himself, hands in his pockets, Jones wandered. At this hour it was all he could do. There were no stores open, but he did do some window shopping. Studied the pin-thin mannequins in their artfully-draped shawls and dresses; salivated over the displays of candy bouquets at a local candy shop and considered putting in an order first thing come nine am to get several hundred dollars of candy - preferably those sour cherry blasters - and he pressed his nose to the glass like a child would as he peered in at a small, family-owned toy shop. This was his favourite stop. There were planes dangling from a mobile in the display - two Soviet-style planes, modelled after something dated from 1960, a Hurricane, a small Boeing - passenger over cargo - and one of those ones that almost looked like a Piper Cherokee. Upon further inspection, he saw that there were stacks of boxes of model planes - the ones he would have to sit down and put together himself. Just like the ones he had made when he was a kid.

A bright smile broke out across his face and he made a giddy sort of noise that was a cross between a sigh and a laugh. Fingers curling against the glass, he bit his lip and pulled away, one hand pressed flat against the cold surface as he looked down the street. Alfred smiled a little and turned back to the glass before backing away, staggering his steps before pivoting on his heel and once more resuming his walk with a bit of a bounce in his step. Putting together planes like that was fun. Maybe it would do him some good to pick up a hobby again?

Staying at the steady pace he had set for himself, Alfred just walked now without paying any heed to where it was he was headed in particular. There was no need to. He didn't look where he was going, crossed roads at random, took short cuts through alleys and ended up on streets he had never seen before until he managed to get to Central Park. No idea as to how he got there in the first place, the lawyer just sort of stood there and stared at the fencing surrounding the archway.

During the day, it was a wonderful place to go with all the different attractions and trails and ponds. He and Matthew frequented it fairly often. But at night it looked forboding, darkness swathing it thickly and Alfred swallowed, mouth dry and his stomach turning briefly, bypassing the place with his eyes forward as he crossed the street to walk closer to the houses and further away from the park. Walking alongside it, being within distance of reaching out and skimming his fingers along the night-cooled metal, made him anxious. He felt like a child that was afraid of the basement at night. That feeling of being watched, as crazy as it was, surrounded him and cloaked him with its subtle chill, like icy little teeth dragging themselves along warm flesh. Something about the place at night just made him uncomfortable; like he should stay away from it. What reason did he have to disobey a gut instinct?

Away from the park and preparing to start winding his way through the residential section of the Upper East Side - closer to where he lived - his stomach had settled, blessedly enough; at least something knew itself well enough to behave. Unlike his circadian rhythms. His steps slowed to a stop upon seeing a Buick parked out in front of a particular house and he grinned to himself as he finally realized where he was. Now it was just a matter of deciding if he should continue on walking all by himself or if he should get someone to join him. His grin turned into a sharp-edged smirk. Then that deciding turned into contemplating about whether or not he could make Arthur hate him even more.

Given everything he had ever done to the poor bastard (and vice-versa; there was no way he could possibly forget about getting calls at four in the morning from his brother, who would 'apologize' for forgetting about the time difference between London and New York how terribly rude of him and not at-all gentleman like), probably not. You could only add insult to injury, not injury to injury. Unless you tried really damn hard.

So with this in mind he removed his cell phone and punched in his brother's phone number, leaning against a light pole and staring up at his bedroom window. He and Morgan would be good and asleep. Four rings later and the light turned on.

"_Nnngh'llo?_"

"Hey Eyebrows!" Alfred practically shouted into the mouthpiece; he could just picture Arthur whining and pulling the phone away. Morgan would be sitting up, glowering briefly before flopping back down and slamming a pillow over her head. He did this too often to not know by now just how routine their reactions were. Four am phone calls were nothing out of the ordinary - whether they came from both sides of the pond or both sides of Manhattan. "Sup little man?"

The line went dead; the light in the window went out. A true signal of him being handed a heaping, steaming plate of defeat.

Alfred puffed his cheeks; _this would not do_.

So he called him again. And again. And again. Each time the phone rang once or twice, it would be picked up and then he would hear the dial tone. Until he decided that it was not nearly enough to try and get his attention and then instead chose to pluck up little stones from the sidewalk and launch them at the man's window while he continued to call him at the same time. The light was turned on, and then there was a very angry Brit on the other line:

"_Alfred Fucking Jones, are you not fucking aware of the God forsaken time? Are you that inherently _stupid_ you bleeding, sodding excuse of a hu-_"

"Ohh, Arthur, you sound _angry,_" Alfred gasped, covering his mouth with mock concern. "Did _I_ make you _angry_?"

"_I'm going to come over to your place and murder you._"

So sleep was still preventing rational thought from occurring. Perfect. Jones hummed pleasantly. "Why waste your time when I'm standing right outside your house, contemplating stealing your Buick and going for a joyride through Manhattan?"

The line went dead, but this time the light did not go out and Alfred was suddenly wondering if there was a blunt object in his vicinity that he could use should things get a little too ugly for him to handle. Arthur, despite being a little fairypants, could be frighteningly dangerous when tired and angry at the same time; as far as things went for saying, he made Matthew look like a sedated kitten just looking for a nice tummy scratch. His half-brother, on the other hand, made him think of something along the lines of a rabid badger with a thorn in its paw, just _waiting _for the first unsuspecting halfwit to crawl by so he could perform some sort of ninja, murderous sneak-attack. It wasn't something he would put as being beneath the older man, that he was damn certain about. In fact he probably prided himself on doing things like that. He was a bastard in that way.

Front door flying open with a bang that echoed through the silent neighbourhood like a gunshot, Arthur stood seething under the archway. Jones almost jumped out of his skin, a startled yelp escaping him as his hand flew to his chest to settle over his rapidly beating heart.

"I ought to _skin you alive_."

A grin spread across Alfred's face. "Good morning, Beautiful!" he declared, spreading his arms in a welcoming sort of gesture. He took in the older man's dishevelled appearance - clothing put on in a half-hearted attempt, blonde hair stuck off and the oddest expression on his face. The complete opposite of beautiful - Medusa would have better luck in a beauty pageant. It was hard to keep from grimacing. "Sleep well, I trust?"

"Go take a flying fuck up your bloomin' arse and go _home_ out of it," Arthur howled, easily putting a Banshee to shame. Looking about feverishly and then grabbing a ceramic flower pot, he launched it at his little brother's head. It fell short and shattered loudly on the pavement. Begonias and soil went everywhere, shards rocketing upwards and black dirt splattering in an outwards spray from the impact of the breakage. Such an untimely end for such a pretty pot of flowers - Morgan would definitely rip him a new one over this. And 'him' not being Arthur, which was for certain; any excuse to get angry at the lawyer was exploited to its fullest potential.

Time to find a scapegoat. Alfred gave it a moment's thought - maybe less than a moment, considering the first name that popped into his head was the most likely candidate and his favourite.

**Who Else Possible Could Make the Perfect Scapegoat?  
**Chris would have to do.  
Chris was _always _an awesome scapegoat.

Problem solved: place all blame on Chris.

"I would," the lawyer said with a shrug and grimace, "but the problem: I can't sleep. So I thought going out for a walk might tire me out and then I could try that sleeping nonsense again. But then I showed up here and I thought that maybe you'd come out and walk around with me, y'know, like we used to when we were younger and I couldn't sleep then…"

Green eyes softened around the corner; Kirkland seemed to have both calmed down and resigned himself. Or maybe he had felt a pang of sympathy for the American. With a groan he locked and shut the door. He approached the man. "And tell me, boy, why can't you sleep?"

The smile on Al's face faltered. "Well, I told you what happened to Mattie and-"

"It's still eating at you?" The judge's voice had softened by a fraction; sympathy it was. He didn't want his brother's commiseration. Just someone to talk to.

Alfred nodded, miserable, slipping his hands into the pocket of his bomber jacket and looking out over the street, away from his brother.

Silence hung between them, Kirkland standing there, arms folded over his chest as he watched his brother and Jones observing the street. A taxi drove past, its light off. There were no passengers in the backseat, and the only person in the vehicle, from what they could see, was the driver. Someone was going home for the night. They followed it with their eyes, both of them wearing bored expressions.

Then Arthur sighed, taking out his mobile phone. Punching in a number, he walked away from Alfred for a moment, leaning against the wrought iron banister. He talked in a hushed voice, eyes partially shut. More than likely he was talking to Morgan because who else would he call at this hour? He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, laughed and then murmured something quietly before sliding it shut and returning it to his pocket. The light in his bedroom window went out. Al rocked back and forth on his heels.

"Well, let's not just stand around and chat," Arthur snapped irritably. He made a sharp gesture with his hand. "Come along now, let's go for a walk."

A small smile stretched Alfred's lips and he nodded slowly. "Thanks," he said, bumping his brother's hip with his own when the smaller man approached, earning a grumble. The smile widened and he laughed a little.

"It's no problem, really," he said with a sigh, head falling back. "My body doesn't need that sleep anyway."

They were silent for the first little while, heading into the residential area of the Upper East Side - where Alfred had been headed before he had been sidetracked into getting his brother.

"Do you have to work in the morning?" he asked suddenly, hands slipping into his pockets as they set off. The thought hadn't occurred to him and a slight niggling guilt set in; he didn't have to work, obviously. While the withdrawal symptoms came and went with a decreasing frequency, they still happened every now and again, and he didn't want to risk working a case and then just crashing during the middle of a session. He had told the State DA that it would be January 2nd when he came back, and not a day later. He missed working to the full extent of what he was used to; missed the atmosphere of a court room during a trial.

"Of course not you idiot," was the terse reply. "If I had to work in the morning do you actually think I would be out of bed right now? _Honestly_?"

"Well, no. Not really…"

"Then belt up you fuckin' tosser and don't ask me such stupid questions.

Spluttering with indignation, Alfred drew himself up and huffed, sticking his nose up in the air and quickening his step so that he walked in front of his brother.

Laughter behind his back; he turned a little and grinned at the elfin Brit.

Stopping was not an option; they were everywhere except for the subway stations. It was five-thirty in the morning before they stopped walking, and to the lawyer's surprise his brother didn't seem to be tired at all; he had anticipated him turning to him by at least before five am, saying he was going to head back and crawl into bed and catch another few hours sleep. Arthur proved to be surprisingly resilient.

They were somewhere on the outskirts of Manhattan when they stumbled across the small bar, its open sign still blaring its obnoxious neon colours. The hues were casting themselves across the deserted sidewalk, bathing everything it touched in fluorescent green, blue and pink. Everything was a dull shade of gray as the day slowly came to life. Within the hour the sun would gradually make itself known, illuminating the Statue of Liberty standing proud in the harbour before telling everyone that it was just another day; that nothing special was going to happen to anyone other than those with some sort of importance. Even then it was not much of a guarantee.

Crossing the road at a jog, Alfred and Arthur approached the establishment. Its brick façade was faded and aged, its roof sagged a little bit back from the overhang and the steps leading down to the small entryway seemed rickety and a little less than stable in their concrete foundation. There was no name for the place. Hesitating on the top step, the lawyer turned to Kirkland. The green-eyed Briton shrugged. There seemed to be no traffic coming to or from the little place; not that it was much of a surprise - it came across as a bit of a dive and look at the hour. Other than themselves, who else would be crazy enough to be out prowling the streets at this hour? Even the prostitutes had given up. And then two brothers decided to leave going in or passing the place to the fate of several, fast-paced games of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Rock, Paper, Scissors turned into Slaps.

Slaps turned into thumb wrestling.

Thumb wrestling turned into arm wrestling.

Arm wrestling turned into something close to Bloody Knuckles.

When Alfred started to whine and bitch like a preschooler about just how unfair his older brother was being, Arthur stopped - but that did not mean he did not gloat about his flawless victory. Who had just almost broken the lawyer's knuckles with a well-placed smack? If he were a child, he might have jumped up in the air, hand raised as high as he could get it and babbled 'Pick me! Pick me!' over and over again, just to spite the New Yorker. The judge was a good gloater; a damn good one, in fact. He did not stop doing so - priding himself on this undeniable superiority of his involving those stupid, brutish games played by elementary age schoolboys - until Alfred threatened to strip him down to his knickers, beat him, tie him to a tree and then leave him there for the whole world to see. Maybe he would take his knickers.

Opening his mouth as though he were going to protest him doing this, Kirkland balked and recoiled upon seeing the wounded, icy look the lawyer wore. He would stay true to his word, which was the single most terrifying thought of it.

So they wandered into the empty bar, bruised arms and hands, exceptionally bloody knuckles and with the possibility of fractured thumbs. Now it was Alfred's turn to be smug. The only other person in there was the bartender. Startled, the man looked up from his cleaning and stared at the two men with a confused expression. Maybe it was not very often he saw patrons in his bar at this particular hour? Then again, if the place was open this early in the morning, then he must get business at all hours. Business didn't necessarily mean it was steady all the time, just people flowing into the place in dribs and drabs. Little pockets of exhausted humanity; some of them office workers pulling overtime, some of them just needing an underpaid psychiatrist to weep into because when they had gotten home they had found out that their respective bed/life partners had left them and had taken everything they owned, including the dog.

_Why_, they would ask as they sobbed around the mouth of their glass, _didn't they leave the damn dog? I don't think she understood how much I loved that fuckin' animal!_

Sometimes he wondered why all bartenders didn't strive to be writers; think of the stories they could craft given some of the sob stories they got told on a regular basis. Some of those people could be packing away the millions of best-selling copies of some of the greatest, funniest romantic tragedies known to man! If only they put down the glass and cloth and instead picked up a pen and put it to paper.

"What can I do for you two?" the bartender quipped, dropping the cloth into a bucket of water, folding his arms on the platform before him and watching as the two newcomers approached him with a sort of hesitation in their steps. Gray eyes were heavy and bloodshot, set beneath two bushy black eyebrows. They seemed bottomless.

Contemplative, Alfred nodded slowly as though he were weighing his options. Well, for one, the were in a bar - but it felt more like a pub, given the fact that it smelt like they were after walking into an ashtray, and there were collections of old beer bottles, Jamaican rums, whiskeys, scotches, vodkas cluttering shelves behind the bar. If it had carried some form of alcohol in it in a previous life, then it was there. A pub at five in the morning. What else was there to do? And then it was the New Yorker who broke the silence first: "Are you still selling beer?"

"Good sweet _Lord_, Alfred. You can't be _seri-_"

"Damn straight I am," the elderly man scoffed, interrupting the Englishman, looking insulted at the inquiry. "Why the fuck would I even have the place open at this unholy hour if I had no intentions of sellin' anythin' other than a few fuckin' cups of water and shitty coffee? If I weren't sellin' beer or summat like that I'd be Goddamn well sleepin'."

The two brothers stared at one another, one expression registering shock and the other a look of bemusement.

"I like this guy," Alfred stated simply, not looking but only pointing in the direction of the bartender. "The world needs more people like him."

"Like idiots who will cater to alcoholic degenerates at all hours of the bloody day?" Arthur muttered derisively.

"No; the world needs more people that aren't afraid to tell it like it is."

Cheeks flushing red at being shot down the way he was, there was a good chance his brother physically bit his tongue as he looked down at the floor with a blackly mumbled curse as they dropped down onto the bar stools there. The bartender gave the two men a tired smirk, rubbing at his eyes as he watched them. He was probably trying to figure out what kind of people he was catering to; given they both looked exhausted, he more than likely assumed he was dealing with two overworked and underpaid office employees.

Given that they had come in in a pair, at least there was no worrying about having to learn some poor idiot's life story in the run of twenty minutes.

Easing himself over towards the two men, the man gave a lopsided grin of sorts. He was a heavy set fellow with a bald patch, and he looked a little too comfortable in his cable knit sweater vest. Alfred leant over towards his brother and whispered 'that'll be you in ten years, Fairypants.' Kirkland gave him a well-deserved smack to the gut.

"So, what'll I get for ye poor blokes this morning?" he offered with a sigh and a shake of the head that was piteous. The man probably thought the two were off their rocker for being out drinking at such an hour - or starting their drinking at such an hour, considering they were perfectly stone sober.

"I'll have a Budweiser," Alfred said, stretching lazily as he plopped down as well. Arthur, on the other hand, went for a can of Pepsi, earning a catcall of ridicule, including the use of a rather poor name for a woman's vagina that could also be used in addressing the feline species. The bartender cackled as Arthur turned red, the vivid colour starting at his ears and then working its way down along his face.

Handing them their drinks, the man wandered away from them, picking the cloth back up. "If you want anythin' else, just holler."

Making noises of acknowledgement that reminded Alfred of a herd of lowing cattle, the man popped the cap on his beer and drank back several mouthfuls before setting it down, along with his head. A sigh left him and he shut his eyes.

Placing his hand on the nape of the lawyer's neck, Arthur gave a reassuring squeeze. "Don't worry about it, Al," he said, voice low in case the man was eavesdropping. "It's not like you're running this particular case, so you needn't worry about Pavel really saying anything; the moment he starts talking, I'll just declare him out of order."

Not running thi-

Alfred sat up and stared at him, blue eyes registering shock. "Wh-what?" he spluttered, pulling back. "What do you mean I won't be taking this case?"

"Look at it this way - this person we're going to be putting on trial in a month's time is basically the man that ruined a good portion of your life, and could still be ruining it if it weren't for a certain someone's intervention," Arthur said firmly, still quiet. "And as wonderful as it would be for you to be the one to hand him his sentence - and there is no fucking way this man is getting out of that court room without at least a minimum of five years - you can't do it; I won't let you. Do you even understand the potential scandal that could come from this? If he were to blurt out in the middle of court that you were one of his former clients, you would be fucked. Soundly fucked right against the wall. The media would have a field day - considering you vehemently _denied _drug usage several times, and straight to the face of media personnel. You'd possibly lose your job after this term. I mean, the State DA already knows about your former addiction-"

"_HE __**WHAT**__-_"

"Jesus fuck Alfred, shut the fuck up and calm down for a second," Arthur hissed, sipping on some of his Pepsi before huffing, stealing a furtive glance over his shoulder towards the bartender. He was on the other side of the establishment, cleaning tables. But that did not mean he wasn't listening. "What else was I supposed to tell him when I took a leave of absence at the same time? I wasn't going to lie to the bleeding git. I told him you were having some serious trouble with a cocaine addiction, that you wanted to get better, and that I was taking you out of the fucking country so you could do so! And he was perfectly fine with it. In fact, he told me to pass on his 'Get Well Soon' wishes. Never did because I knew you'd react like that. But, essentially, he didn't turn around negatively when I told him. Disappointed, yes. But nothing really negative. You're fucking lucky, that's damn certain.

"Chris is taking this case, though. You can't for the simple fact that everything you've worked to achieve could be blown to hell over this. I don't want to see that happen, Alfred. I won't _let _it happen. Not as long as I'm overseeing this case, and not as long as I'm your brother," Arthur snarled, looking oddly menacing in the dim lighting of the bar. The American felt his stomach churn, a rolling of nerves, disappointment, stress and anger, just twisting and turning and he picked up his beer and drained the contents - over half the bottle. "Tell me - is Pavel aware of your job position?"

Quiet for a bit, Alfred frowned and then slowly shook his head. "He knows I'm a lawyer," he murmured, "but he thinks I work small-time cases. Divorces and stuff; the man doesn't watch television and his understanding of English isn't the greatest, despite his intelligence."

"Well, you have that much working for you?" Arthur offered tiredly. His brother stared at him blankly for a moment before nodding.

Alfred gave a bitter laugh as he waved over the bartender for another beer, expression grim. The sound did not suit him. There were tears in his eyes. "By rights then, I shouldn't even be there when Mattie testifies in court, and he told me he didn't want to testify if I wasn't going to be there," he whispered. "And now I have to try and find someone else that can be there, lawyer-wise, for him. Good sweet Christ." He accepted the second beer with a pathetic look of thanks, nearly draining back the entirety of its contents in one go. Arthur grimaced; this would not turn out well.

"Matthew shouldn't even need a lawyer," reasoned the judge. His brother spared him a glance. "Chris will help him prepare his witness statements, his story, and his information. Everything. Chris will ask him questions for the first while, blah de blah, then it'll go to a recess, the defense attorney will get a chance to do some questioning of his own, try and work his client's story against the lad's and Chris will obviously shut him down. He'll be off the stand by two o'clock and he'll just have to sit and listen to the rest of the proceedings. Don't fret over it, Alfred; the boy is going to do just fine."

Slumping back against the seat, Alfred ran a hand down over his face. "I guess you're right," he hummed. "I'm not worried about Chris; for one, he likes Matthew, so I know he won't let anything happen to him. And I know that he'll defend Matthew's positon as an assault and attempted murder victim viciously, whether he knows him or not, but I still can't help but worry over it." He picked up his beer and finished it off.

Two beers in ten minutes. Never a good sign when it came to his half-sibling. Arthur wondered if the lawyer would be walking out of the place sober or crawling out on all fours absolutely plastered to the high heavens. When the man ordered another beer, and this time two shots of whiskey, he realized it might be the latter.

Calling for another can of Pepsi, Arthur resigned himself to the probability that he would be taking care of the man until he got him back to Matthew's apartment.

By the time six am rolled around, Alfred was fairly buzzed, the gloomy auroa hanging about him having all but diminished. While there was still the occasional moment where he seemed as though he were sort of low, it did not last and he would immediately flop back into the cheerful state of mind he had procured for himself with a little bit of help from his liquid friends.

They had discovered the jukebox in the corner at this point, and Alfred scrounged up all the quarters he possibly could - some three dollars, which made for a fairly decent soundtrack for a little while - but before he wasted any of them, the bartender calmly pointed out that it was just a quick way to make money, and if he pressed four times on the track he wanted to listen to, it would play free-of-charge. One of those technological loopholes the man had discovered but had never let anyone in on for the simple fact that hey, who was he to deny himself a quick and easy dollar? But, just because they had spent almost sixty dollars between them since arriving on Pepsi, whiskey and beer, he was feeling like a kindly old man for once in his fucking life and why the hell not, they could be in on the secret, too.

And the jukebox was a little gold mine in its own rights. Instead of being chock-full of crappy oldies, it was loaded up with a good deal of music from the mid-to-late seventies. Bob Dylan, Don McLean, Billy Joel, Rod Stewart, Three Dog Night, David Bowie, Elton John. Music like that - or at least stuff that the Briton thought to be far superior in comparison to the crap he heard people listening to nowadays. Alfred was too smitten over the fact that it had Bob Dylan and Don McLean on it to really give to sweet fucks about the rest of what was there.

(Maybe the bartender had spiked his drink, but for some odd reason that bewildered both men, Arthur didn't need too much coaxing to join in on his brother's singing.)

(And it was no surprise whatsoever to learn that the lawyer knew every word to the song 'American Pie' and he lacked that much in the shame department that he had all the confidence in the world to prance around the bar, beer bottle in hand, as he belted out each and every lyric. Sure, liquid courage might have had a hand in it, but there was a damn good chance he would have done the exact same thing sober.)

Half an hour later and Alfred F. Jones was back asswards drunk and laughing about the stupidest things possible, barely able to hold onto his bottle of beer. Like the pattern in the granite of the counter surface. The fact that there was a penny embedded into the rock. His brother's eyebrows. Everything was suddenly a lot funnier than it had been an hour ago, and all the stress and despair and anger from earlier had evaporated. He felt lighter; content if not a little bit giddy. That might have been the exhaustion kicking in, and amplifying the effects of the alcohol in his system. Suddenly, the appeal of alcoholism was revealed and he completely understood why so many people turned to booze to alleviate their problems. He had done the same with drugs, hadn't he? What made alcohol any different?

Arthur could not help but chuckle at his brother's alcohol-induced, yet still jovial, behaviour, and even the bartender seemed to be getting a few laughs out of it. There was a light smile on the older man's face as he watched the two interact - the older brother with a very reserved, amused patience and the younger with this sort of childlike whimsy.

Smartly enough, he was cut off after the eleventh beer and sixth shot. A drunken state of mind did odd things to the twenty-seven-year-old. By this time Alfred was convinced he was Rubeus Hagrid, that his older brother was Harry Potter, and that they were at the Leaky Cauldron having a few pints before going to buy 'Harry' his supplies for Hogwarts. The bartender had taken on the name Tom, and despite his previous attitude towards the two men, he seemed quite content to adopt this name and humour the drunken state of a human being sat at his bar, babbling on in a British accent about dragons and giants and griffons and things of the like. He was probably used to this sort of thing happening by now; if Arthur ever saw him again after this night, he would apologize a hundred times over for the behaviour being displayed.

Then again, there was no way to apologize for someone like _him._

"C'mon 'arry," Alfred garbled with a bright smile, tugging relentlessly at the hem of his sweater, "we 'ave t'go t'Diagon Alley t'get yer books 'n' robes 'n' stuff fer yer bloody owl."

"Alright, alright, you bleeding moron," groaned the man, rubbing at his eyes; he was finally starting to get tired. "Let's go to Diagon Alley to get my books."

Standing, and teetering dangerously to the right until his brother grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him into a proper standing position, Alfred hoisted himself up and over the bar. The bartender gave a startled noise and pulled back when the inebriated lawyer grabbed for the umbrella that was in a basket. He hesitated on the way back and picked up the red Sharpie that was set down on the lower portion of the counter, sending a wicked look in Arthur's direction. Putting the pen, the look in his eyes, and the fact that he was supposed to be Harry Potter, the judge recoiled.

"Don't you look at me like that."

Alfred's grin was wry. "Look at ye like wha', 'arry?" He approached him with slow steps, and then the next thing the Englishman knew, the American had pounced on him, grabbed him in a headlock and, uncapping the marker with his teeth, managed to scribble a lopsided lightening bolt over his right eye. They tussled briefly; he was flung off of the tinier man and landed on the floor with a heavy thump.

Silence hung in the bar.

The bartender then burst out laughing, slamming a hand down on the counter and pressing his other hand to his gut.

Jones looked smug; Kirkland looked vicious.

"I hate you _so_ much, Alfred_._"

"Alfred? M'name's 'agrid," he said proudly, puffing his chest and brandishing the umbrella he had nearly taken 'Tom' out with. "Now, c'mon lad, we 'ave t'get goin' t'Diagon Alley before Flourish and Blotts closes 'n' all tha' nonsense." Dragging the newly christened Harry along with him, Alfred linked their arms and pointed the umbrella in the direction of the small hall, over which hung a small wooden sign that had a lady and a man carved into it.

"Tally-ho, gentlemen," the bartender commented in an off-hand voice, grinning wryly at them as he prepared to close up the bar, the first step of it all being going over and unplugging the luminescent sign and killing the light with an easy twist of the wrist. They had been his only patrons for the past hour and a half so it was time to close shop. "Have a good trip to the Alley; I'll be here when you get back, and let me know when you want me to lock the door behind you. We don't want no … oh, what the bleedin' fuck did ye call 'em? I don't even know … any of those non-magic folk getting in here and drinking all the magical brew they can get their slimey, unmagical hands on."

"_Muggles_," Alfred slurred. "Y'don't wan' no blasted muggles gettin' in. Tha'd be right awful fer business, y'know? A good lot, but bad fer business. Yup. C'mon, 'arry, don't make me tell y'again."

"What if some Hobbits wanted to come in?" Arthur offered, giving his brother a sly look as he was lead in the direction of 'Diagon Alley'. The bartender's chuckles followed them on the way out. "You wouldn't turn them away, now would you?"

"Different fandom," the man called out. "A hobbit will always be welcomed in my bar."

Alfred just muttered about how lovely it was to have legs made of rubber and oh goodness he really needed to sit down but no, Diagon Alley awaited them so sitting down would have to be put off until a later date.

Diagon Alley ended up being the men's washroom, and Arthur waited with a sort of humiliated patience as his brother made a 'deposit' of 'gold' into the 'vault' at 'Gringotts'. It did not help him any that the entire while he sang the song 'American Pie' at the top of his lungs, off-key and the whole nine yards. 'American Pie' turned into 'Come On, Eileen', which then turned into 'Daydream Believer' and finally ended up morphing into 'River of Dreams'. He had never been witness to such a massacre of good music and, subtly, he brought his fingers up to his ears as though to make certain that they were not bleeding profusely.

When Alfred emerged, grinning stupidly and wobbling a little, he thanked the older man profusely for being such a patient little goblin. He was still struggling with putting himself back into his boxers and zipping his jeans. Rolling his eyes, Arthur helped the man-child before him, only to end up with a finger waggling in his face.

"Now now," the man scolded drunkenly, leaning forward until their foreheads bumped. His blue eyes were glazed and his glasses askew. "My goodies cannot be touched by the likes of _you, _y'silly Limey bastard. They can only be touched by Mattie. And m'self, if I feel like it. But not _you_."

That was how Alfred came to experience his first very first, and very sobering, beating at the hand of his mortified brother, who happened to be weilding the umbrella he had 'borrowed' so they could get to Diagon Alley in the first place.

The cab ride back, once they had bid their farewells to Tom the Bartender - which was very heartfelt in the case of the American lawyer, and there might have been a few tears shed and some very awkward hugs passed around - and somehow managed to stagger out of the dimly lit dungeon of a pub and into the painfully bright light of the city, was a relatively uneventful one. Alfred was slumped against Arthur for the duration of the drive, head on the older man's shoulder and his expression dazed. Arthur, on the other hand, yawned at irregular and frequent intervals.

When Alfred commented that the night had been a success, yawning as he shut his eyes, curling in as close as the seatbelt constricting him would allow, Arthur flushed and shook his head with a laugh.

"It was only a success because you got drunk at six in the morning," he commented idly.

"Nah," murmured Alfred, eyes still shut. He patted the judge's knee. "I had fun with m'bro _and _got drunk at six in the morning."

"S-Shut up," he spluttered, giving him a feeble smack before slumping down into the seat, eyes shutting as he yawned. While it would be like pulling teeth from a lion to get him to admit it, he had enjoyed their little adventure. Now all he needed to do was drop his brother off and then go home and crawl back into bed, wrap himself around his wife and then drop off to sleep again for a few hours. A perfect adventure and morning, indeed.

The silence in the cab was heavier than it had been before, and when Arthur glanced down to his brother, he wasn't entirely surprised to find him asleep. A knowing smile curved his lips, and he shook his head ruefully.

'_Brothers,_' he thought with a fond sort of exasperation.

And if Alfred were asked about how he had gotten home from the bar, there was no possible way for him to answer because he could barely remember leaving the pub let alone the cab ride back. Maybe because it was so uneventful, but it felt to him as though he had left the bar, shut his eyes for a few seconds and then reopened them only to find himself in bed with Matthew.

Next to his pillow was a note, but the lawyer didn't quite have the energy to pick it up, so instead he craned his neck to try and get a look at it. There was a dull headache pulsating behind his eyes, and his mouth was cottony from the booze, but otherwise there wasn't much in terms of a hangover for him to speak of. He had gotten off lucky.

The note, however, was from Arthur, and it briefly explained that he had passed out in the back of the cab within two minutes of leaving the bar. _After all I do for you; this is how you repay me. There is a drool patch, _he had written, _the size of a baseball on my favourite sweater. You shall pay for this. But, I hope your hangover is terrible enough to make up for the ruination of my sweater. Tell Matthew I give him my regards and express my condolences over the fact that you look like hell and smell even worse. Poor bloke, having to share a bed with the likes of you. Oh, and if you intend on calling me - don't. I don't want to hear from you unless it's sometime after 7pm. Understand? Good. By the way, I feel like a proper wanker telling you this, but you two look adorable curled up the way you are. So nice to see young love. Now hurry up and get old. It makes me nauseous. _

Jones stopped reading it at that point, a dull blush staining his cheeks and he pulled back, draping himself back over his boyfriend with a groan. His favourite pillow. Matthew was curled into his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his mid-section, their legs twined together. The sheets were bunched at their waist but Mattie had somehow managed to get the comforter over just his own body and not his boyfriend's.

Sticking his nose into his messy blonde curls, he inhaled and smiled, the curve of his lips broadening when Matthew squirmed and mumbled in his sleep.

When he realized that the numbers on the clock read that it was well after two in the afternoon, Alfred's eyes widened and he made a sort of squawking noise. "Hnn, Mattie," he muttered, giving his lover a firm shake on the shoulder. His words were strung together by sleep and the overwhelming desire to go back to sleep. "S'time t'get up. It's like, late, and you've been asleep for at least … ever."

Just a mumble, more burrowing, and he sighed. There was always another approach he could take to this.

Worming his way out of the warm embrace he was caught in, Alfred pulled himself away and climbed on top of Matthew, a wicked grin crossing his lips. The artist he had been cuddled into was toasty warm, having been bundled under the blankets. The lawyer's hands, on the other hand, were like chunks of ice.

Slipping his hands beneath the blankets, he placed them on Mattie's abdomen and then waited. It took a second, but then the reaction he had anticipated came to pass and it was absolutely golden. He shot up with a startled yelp, indigo eyes wide and his entire frame tensing up. He grabbed the pillow and swung, smashing the soft object right alongside Alfred's head.

"Cold hands! Cold hands! COLD. _HANDS. _Oh my God! Fuck you, you _fucking asshole_!" he screeched, hitting him relentlessly with the pillow. Alfred had all he could do to keep from crying with laughter as he continued to heat up his freezing hands on the warm, supple body before him. "_Don't touch me you fucking beast why are you still touching me I hate you, you monster!_"

"Love you too, gorgeous," Al wheezed, taking his hands off him and instead grabbing the pillow he was being assaulted with. He chucked it across the room and pinned the Canadian to the bed, both of them breathing heavily before he burst out laughing, forehead going to rest on a tense shoulder.

Matthew just grumbled, ceasing in his struggles. Then he sniffed. "You smell like an ashtray. And a keg. Why?"

"I went drinking with Arthur at, like, six o'clock this morning. We went to some little pub-like thing and I might have gotten absolutely piss-loaded on almost a dozen beer and some whiskey shots."

"…_Why_?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"So you thought it would be a good idea to go drinking. At six in the morning."

"Yup. Great logic, huh?"

"You? _Logic_?" He gave a scornful laugh._ "_You have no logic, dumbass."

"And you're a neurotic halfwit."

"Hoser."

"Asshole."

"_Retard panda_."

Silence. "I will never get over that," Alfred said in a flat voice as he rolled off of Matthew, lying on his side and running a hand through his matted curls. "_Never_." He kissed the younger man's forehead fondly, loving the lazy smile that wormed its way onto his face and the look of satisfaction that appeared there as well.

Matthew made a humming noise before stretching languorously, holding his back in an arch for a moment before dropping back down. He rubbed at his eyes before groping blindly for his glasses. "I take it you slept?"

Nodding, Alfred rolled over onto his front. "Yeah," he said, lifting his face from the pillow and just setting his cheek down on the cool surface. The other was staring at the ceiling, blinking lazily, a tiny smile on his lips. "Pretty sad though, that it took me getting drunk and all to be able to sleep the way I did."

"It's all you can do, I guess, in a situation like that and you don't want want to resort to pills," said the Albertan. "Just don't make a habit of it."

"I don't need to go from one addiction to another," muttered Alfred blackly, running a hand through his hair and sighing. Matthew turned his head to look at him, a sad expression in his eyes and his smile dimmed a little. "So don't worry about that."

"Worry about what?"

Both men started and then gave each other a confused look, lifting their heads and turning their attention to the doorway. While they knew who it was, it was surprising to see him there - given the fact that neither of them had let him in. Chris stood there in a pair of shorts and a New York Rangers t-shirt, an unimpressed look on his face.

"How … how did you get in?" Matthew asked, sitting up and studying the other lawyer as though he had grown another head upon his shoulder.

"Door was unlocked." Chris shrugged. "I've been watching TV for the past two hours now; figured I'd let you two sleep since you both looked so fucking precious."

Turning and fixing a deadly stare on the other man in his bed, Matthew glowered at the district attorney despite the colour rising in his cheeks - obvious embarrassment from what DePaulo had said. Alfred shied away, sliding down beneath the covers and pulling them over his head to hide from the murderous look he was being given. "You can _never_ bitch at me for forgetting to lock the door ever again," he snapped, giving him a smack on the shoulder.

"I love you?" the lawyer offered meekly.

"Go fuck yourself and get out of my bed."


	29. Chapter 29

**CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.**

Matthew Williams was never good at enjoying semi-formal or formal events. Galas, dinners, dances. They made him nervous; self-conscious. Like everyone was watching him and judging him based on how well he was put together.

Even though this was supposed to be a date - they were here to have fun, after all - and he was a nobody in terms of New York artists, there was really no reason for him to be worrying. Nobody knew anything about who he was, save for the fact that he was the Manhattan District Attorney's date (he had overheard several women discussing this, in surprised voices, that the last person they expected to show up at an art gala was the DA and with another man on his arm nonetheless).

"You look _fine_," murmured a low voice into his ear, broad hands on his shoulders as they dispersed from the initial crowd in the center of the gallery. There was a reassuring squeeze and Matthew nodded absently, shutting his eyes briefly. "Don't worry, Pet. If it helps any, _I _think you look absolutely wonderful."

(Only a little bit, but it _did _help.)

They had gone suit shopping almost a week ago, and it had been a struggle the entire time. Everything Alfred suggested his boyfriend found a way to shoot it down. Too formal, too constricting, too lame, too politician, too _funeral_. What Matthew had settled on in the end wasn't even really a _suit_. It was a black dress shirt with a black and gray striped cardigan, a white tie paired with the outfit. And he had been talked into wearing the tie. For the first little while, he felt like he looked decent; it wasn't all that often he dressed up, and honestly, this was the best he had dressed in at least six years. He felt surprisingly confident, good-looking even, but it didn't last too long. It was when they arrived at the gallery, Alfred wearing one of his best suits, freshly shaved and looking frightfully handsome - along with all the other people that were outfitted to the nines - that the Canadian started to feel awfully inadequate; even the waiters going around were dressed better than he was. Maybe he should have gotten a suit after all.

Distracted, he accepted a glass of champagne with an off-kilter smile, eyes elsewhere as he brought it to his lips and sipped the bubbly tentatively. It was sharp against his tongue; his mouth tasted like a cheap paste. He could feel Alfred's eyes on him and lips pressed against his ear. "Mattie, c'mon, _relax,_" he whispered. "No one here really gives a shit about what you're wearing, trust me. You're here to have some fun and possibly teach me a thing or two about understanding art because frankly you and I both know that I don't know shit. Just chill."

"Sorry," he said, chewing on his lower lip. "I'm just … not used to this sort of thing and Christ it just feels like everyone is _looking _at me."

"It's because you're gorgeous," reassured the lawyer with a dopey grin. "Now come on."

He laughed quietly and nodded, looking down at the pale wooden floor as he tapped his foot anxiously, the sound calming despite being barely able to hear it over the din of conversation.

Pausing before speaking, Matthew glanced over to Al. "Where do you want to start looking?" he asked.

The lawyer shrugged. "Let's start from here and work our way up? It's not like they're going to be giving any real speeches, thank God. I love it when these things are casual."

Casual didn't seem to be ample wording, given the supposed dress code and the extent of New York's art society that was there, but the young man said nothing; just nodded and smiled. Jones seemed to be convinced by this and, hesitantly glancing about them with cheeks that were growing pinker by the moment, he draped his arm around the Albertan's waist, swirlling the liquid in the crystal glass he held.

When he considered the arm around his waist, sinking into the hold on him, Matthew wondered to himself just how long his lover had been working up the nerve to make that move; when they were out in public they rarely held onto each other like this. Mainly hands. But never something as bold as this - and it made him feel like they were actually a couple.

Sure, they kissed. Sure, they occasionally (see: frequently) slept in the same bed. Sure, some of their clothing had made the cross-town trip into the other's closet. Sure, they said they were together in that sense of togetherness and goddammit, they were in love, end of story. It was just as nice, however, to go out and do stereotypical 'couple' things, like this.

Pleased by this, he slid his arm around Al's waist and glanced over to him with a tiny smile. Alfred looked over to him, absently licked at his lips and then gave him one of those shit-eating grins he favoured.

There was another gallery off the main gallery - which was where the new exhibition was set up - but that one was closed - and sadly, Matthew thought with pursed lips, it was one he had wanted to see for quite some time. A display by a Canadian artist called 'Woodrow', based on a small ghost town in Saskatchewan. The display, he had read, included a stop-animation film and animatronic sculptures of different buildings that littered the previously inhabited town. Gilbert had talked about it non-stop for a good two or three weeks after seeing it - saying how cool it was, the way everything was put together and all the descriptions for each piece; how the little short film had nothing to do with anything but it still tied in damn good with the whole thing.

Matthew hummed thoughtfully, peering in through the glass doors as his boyfriend stopped briefly to talk to someone. The display was unlit, save for security lights, but he could see little LED lights illuminating the interiors of some of the buildings.

He would have to badger Alfred into taking him the next time they had a chance to do something like this.

Once he had stopped chatting with the young woman, apparently a court reporter the older man had told him with a groan as they started viewing the place once more, they simply took their time wandering about. As for the gallery having been put together for this, the art took over a portion of main floor and the second floor, along with some related pieces on the third. Which was nice; there was nothing worse than spending maybe fifteen, twenty minutes in a gallery and then leaving because there was nothing else to take in other than a few paintings.

This, however, had an impressive range of pieces. And it was easy to tell who the artists were for, as they milled about the main floor, they would come across these pockets of people surrounding one or two individuals, all of them talking and laughing. Jealousy flared for a brief moment but he pushed the gut-eating envy down and tore his eyes away from the people and refocused on the things on display.

Tugged to a stop by the arm on his waist, Mattie glanced over to Alfred. The man had stopped and was looking up at a painting on the wall with a confused look on his face. It was splatter art, with rich colours layering the based and softer, more pastel-like ones on the top. The lawyer turned up his nose. "The fuck is this?" he asked in a low voice, sipping his champagne. "How the _fuck _does this qualify as art? I could stick my cat in some paint, give Greg's daughter a paint brush and maybe my nephew a paint brush and they could come out with the same damn result. I don't get it."

Matthew laughed. "Something like this can take months to make," he said. "Ever heard of Jackson Pollock?"

He made a face. "Nope. Did he make stuff like this?"

"Yeah. And some of his paintings - ones just like this - have sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars," said the young man, somewhat wistfully. "Like, yeah, sometimes tons of work goes into making them - a lot of the time, the placement of the streaks of paint and whatnot is a very deliberate choice made by the artist - but even I don't understand how something like this can be symbolic of anything other than someone's possibly deteriorating mental state, or how it can be worth so much money."

Alfred looked floored. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, shaking his head. "_This _is why I don't understand art. How the hell does something like _that,_" he made a vague gesture in the direction of the large canvas, "warrant a place in a gallery or in the homes of millionaires when there are people with actual talent that aren't known, or are just known locally? That's just … stupid."

Shrugging, Matthew cocked his head to the side for a moment as he studied the piece. "I agree, it is kind of stupid," he murmured. "But to each their own."

Shifting his weight, Jones rolled his eyes and shook his head. The Canadian chuckled and pressed in close to the older man's side, sipping his champagne. Around his waist the arm tightened and he could not help but smile.

A lot of the pieces were either completely mindless or the polar opposite, crafted to be these intricate political and social commentaries. These were the ones Matthew lingered on a little bit longer than the others; the ones he found himself mentally picking apart and trying to work it from the possible angle from which the artist had come. Some of them had legitimate concerns - like with concern over the food industry, the use of tax dollars - but some seemed to be coming from a more bourgeois perspective. Like the preservation of social class; keeping democrats out of the White House; protecting current privileges; the dangers of class war. Some of the pieces were styled to be like propaganda posters which helped make them all the more interesting.

It was a frightfully conservative gallery in some aspects. And it made Matthew want to hunt down the artist that had put these particular ones together and argue him into the next dimension.

When they happened upon more splatter art, Alfred stared at it, said, "We're not even acknowledging it," and kept moving without giving the other a chance to fully process what had happened.

Laughing when he finally realized it, Matthew grinned at him. "Does this mean you have a vendetta against splatter art?"

He snorted. "Damn straight I do."

"That's good to hear," the Canadian chirped pleasantly. "Everyone needs something to get them through the day, I suppose. What do you intend to do to actively pursue this vendetta of yours, Princess?"

"Not a fucking clue; I have to get back to you on that one."

Matthew laughed again. "I'll hold you to that if you want," he purred around the rim of his glass, sending his boyfriend a sly look, lips curling into more of a smirk than anything. Alfred licked at his lips briefly. "And I'll give you a week before I check up on this War Against Splatter Art of yours, just to see how you're handling things on the Western Front before I offer any assistance."

"No problem, Captain," said Alfred. "I'll do up a full field report and everything. Should I put it on scented stationary and send you a bottle of Cognac with it? Or would you prefer some Rum?"

Stopping to stand in front of a painting, peering up at the small canvas with an interested look, he nodded, distracted. "Send me both," said the artist in a faraway voice; his attention had strayed from the man he was holding onto and to the piece before them. Indigo eyes narrowed, eyebrows bunched together and he openly frowned as he stepped out of the encirclement of the arm around his waist and to stand almost nose-to-canvas with the picture.

Stepping to standing beside him, Alfred studied the painting and then looked with a slight concern to the younger man. He opened his mouth and then hesitated, mouth falling shut so he could bite on his lips. Matthew, despite studying intently what was before him, watched the movement from the corner of his eye but paid it no mind until he spoke. "What is it?"

"The art style," he mumbled, looking away finally. The painting was of a darkened bedroom with only slightly discernable shadows - it was hard to tell if there were only one or two people in the piece. Shapes were vague and slightly displaced throughout their positioning on the modest-sized canvas. He knew where he had seen this style before, but he just didn't want to accept the possibilities. They haunted him. "It's familiar. I've seen it before."

"Well, a lot of artists have the same style," Jones offered lamely. "Maybe you've seen it somewhere else?"

Saying nothing, Matthew peered at the painting closer than before and adjusted his glasses. He studied the unintelligible scrawl down in the bottom corner. It was impossible to establish a name which only pressed him further in the right direction. _Shit_. "No," he said, shaking his head. "This is different. I've watched someone paint just like this before." His voice faltered and he fell silent.

A hand took his. Matthew glanced over to Alfred; the man looked confused, unnerved and curious all at once. "Who do you think it is?"

"No one important," he mumbled, reaffirming his grip on the cool skinned hand. Flashing Alfred a reassuring smile, he bumped their hips together and felt his heart quicken when the lawyer laughed. "Don't worry about it. I'm just being … crazy and presumptuous."

Yeah. Crazy and presumptuous. Just like every other time.

Alfred said nothing to this, just gave his hand a gentle squeeze and the Canadian was thankful that he did not press any further for his thoughts. What they had was better than a pact of neutrality.

There were a few more paintings in the gallery with the same style, and the same chicken scratch signature down in the corner, and each time he stumbled across one it felt like he was being thrown a curve ball without warning. It had been a while since he had come across a painter with the exact same style, who used the same brush stroke and signed his pieces the exact same way as what Lars did. It was highly improbable that it could be anyone else, but there was no way the Canadian was going to get his hopes up that it was his former teacher; the man was probably still in Amsterdam. Or at least that was where he had been when he had last heard from the guy four years ago.

But if it was Lars, and he was here, would he approach him? Or would he just walk on past like the man didn't exist - had never existed? That would probably be easiest. He had no idea what he would do. Anxiety pooled deep in his gut and he started to gnaw on his lower lip as he mulled it over. So many things could happen if it were Lars. Things he could not decide if they were bad, good, or both.

There was a chance the Dutchman would not recognize him; while he had not changed that much in terms of appearance since high school, he had thinned out quite a bit; his hair was a bit longer now. Even now, when he bumped into people he knew from high school, from running on the cross country team and playing volleyball, they did not immediately know it was him - and most of the time he never gave them that chance. However, if Gilbert's immediate recognition of him two years ago was any indication, Lars could possibly remember him without any prompting whatsoever. The thought frightened him and thrilled him all at once.

Why the hell was he giddy and scared all at once at the possibility of seeing the man? It was stupid; his nerves playing hell with him and winning (something they were good at). There was not a single, lustful bone in his body remaining for the man - there had not been one there for quite some time. Maybe he was fearful of the possible questions he could be asked. It was bad enough he couldn't answer Alfred's questions about when he was a teenager other that the basic 'my mother got sick and died, I don't know who my father is and my step-father kind of hated my guts'. How was he supposed to answer the questions of someone who knew every little thing he had gone through while his boyfriend was there with any sort of honesty?

Alfred didn't need to know the full extent of everything. Other than that, there wasn't a logical explanation he could come up with.

Frustration settled in his gut and Matthew wanted to tug at his hair to release a bit of it, but he did nothing; just allowed himself to go with the flow of everything happening. His empty champagne glass had been replaced mid-thought and he hadn't even noticed. An appreciative hum left him and he sipped the icy bubbly. Focusing in on the music playing in the background, he started to feel himself relax and a tiny smile crossed his face.

They must have put something in the drinks.

It was always the fucking drinks the bastards went for first, and then the finger foods.

Conniving lot of assholes.

Neither man showed much in terms of interest when it came to the sculptures, but they still took them in, Williams just staring at it with glazed eyes and amazed expression and Alfred tilting his head to the side and squinting as he tried to make head or tails of the popsicles meticulously crafted in the shape of … _something_. Frankly, it just looked like a giant blob of glue, sticks and Matthew thought it was supposed to be a moose ("of course you would think that", Alfred had grumbled, "because you're a fucking Canadian"). The twenty-seven-year-old, on the other hand, thought it might have been some sort of endangered species of a Tibetan Yak being chased by angry villagers trying to capture a meal.

Turning his head slowly and staring at the slightly taller man with little to no reaction, Matthew blinked slowly, looked back to the piece and then promptly walked away. Deny his existence. Deny his existence. Deny his existence. '_You don't know who he is, you have never seen him and you most certainly were not walking arm-in-arm, nor were you cozying up to the delusional bastard. Pretend he's a walking eggplant at the most_,' he firmly told himself, easily crossing the gallery and heading for the stair case to go up to the next floor of the exhibition. '_If you can manage that much you should be good._'

Alfred just sort of threw his hands upwards in exasperation before following him up with a quickened step.

Being tugged into a small room off to the side and emptied of any other people was the last thing he expected, but it happened all the same and a bark of laughter left Matthew as Alfred grumbled, wrapping his arms around the narrow waist before him and gnawing playfully on his jaw. His cheeks warmed up. The arms tightened. "You _dickface_," the lawyer grunted, kneeing him lightly in the backside. "Don't deny how fuckin' amazing my artistic intrepretations are. My prowress is undeniable."

"As is your slight case of creative retardation," Mattie chuckled as he twisted around in his grasp, flicking him on the nose. Alfred jerked his head back with a wounded look, wrinkling his nose several times to get rid of the sensation. "But it's okay; it's something we can work on."

Sighing in unison, the two looked around the room and Matthew felt his shoulders droop a little as he studied the dimly lit space. Numbers covered every inch of free wall space; pale green numbers set on a dark green background, with minimal lighting. Unsure of what it was, both men just stood there and looked around them, mouthing the numbers as they went. A feeling of calmness overcame him and he folded his arms across his chest as he continued to read through the seemingly inexhaustible list.

While he had loved math and had been in the advanced class all through junior high and high school, numbers had never calmed him; he had never felt completely at peace while figuring out a formula or applying mathematics to 'real life' situations. This sort of feeling left him perfectly relaxed.

And Alfred seemed to be feeling the exact same way; he had sat down on the cushioned stool in the center of the room and was looking up at a different wall that was covered in just as many numbers as the other three. He was resting forward, elbows on his knees and his back hunched as he stared up at the several top rows of numbers. The fact that the gallery beyond the small room was perfectly silent helped a little, or maybe the size and layout of the room, with the door off to the side, helped create an illusion of a silent building to enhance the feeling the room gave off. It was always nice to go to a place like this where the artists knew what they were doing when it came to setting up.

Staggering back until his knees bumped against the edge of the other stool, he flopped down onto the soft cushion and rested his weight back onto his elbows, turning his attention to another wall. More digits covered this one, and what he found as he read them was that he was adding them up as he went. Cursing silently, he pulled at his mouth and let his head drop back.

Now that he was sitting, it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable to be looking up at the walls, trying to take in all the numbers at once; to try and process them all at the same time. There needed to be more rooms like this in the world. The hospital could have used something like this while he had been there, hooked up on those machines and that wretched blood transfusion bag, giving the doctors that approached him malicious looks and recoiling the moment they approached him (_simply because he did not want to be there, living and breathing_). They definitely could have handled having a room like this that week he had spent holed up in the ICU. Matthew ran a hand through his hair and then bit at the corner of his lip until he tasted something filthy and metallic.

There were times after work when he could use a room just like this. Somewhere to sit in perfect silence and just lie on the floor and stare at number-encrypted, dark-painted walls and just let his mind detach itself from his body. Lie there and try to overcome the urge to horrendously maim the first thing that breathed in his direction (and heaven forbid if it was Alfred).

Time seemed to have crawled to a stop (at the back of his mind, Matthew surreptitiously wondered if they were pumping some sort of light weed smoke into the place in the same sort of way casinos in Vegas pumped their parlours full of oxygen) since they had entered the display. Speaking had become a foreign concept. They didn't even look at one another; should Alfred have gotten up and left, he probably wouldn't have noticed. A few other people entered the room, gave the place a brief glance over and then left, not even acknowledging the two men seated there.

"I see you've found the Pi room," came a voice from the door. The two men jolted and looked over to the low archway. A man stood there, leaning against the wall for a brief moment before ducking in to join them.

Vapid-eyed and uncomprehending at first, the lawyer just started. A grin finally crossed Alfred's face, one corner of his mouth twisting up a little farther than the other. Matthew looked on in confusion before turning his attention to the walls once more, tuning out the pending conversation.

"Hey there, Your Honour," he said, standing and approaching the man. "I didn't expect to see you here."

Light laughter. "My wife is big on this modern art nonsense so I figured I'd be a good husband and take her out for the evening," he snuffed with a wave of his hand. "I could say the same for you, however. Since when do you frequent the art scene, Alfred?"

"Since Mattie loves art," his companion said with a tiny grin on his face, blue eyes bright as he laced his fingers together behind his back. Matthew felt his face heat up at the mention of his name and he tore his eyes away from the pi wall, biting on his lower lip as he gave the man a timid smile.

Eyes were suddenly trained on him and Matthew felt naked beneath them. The man appeared to be of Arabic origins, and he looked deceivingly young to have a wife. But then again, for all he knew this man could be positively ancient; people with money could do what they wanted with their looks and defy age if they wanted to. And was it just him, or was he wearing _eyeliner_? The Canadian simply told himself it was exceptionally black eyelashes causing the appearance of makeup. "Ah, so _you _are Matthew," he hummed, approaching the seated artist and standing before him.

Biting the inside of his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing, Matthew noticed one crucial thing that rendered it impossible to take him seriously:

_He was shorter than Gilbert._

"Yes?" he offered meekly. The corners of his mouth ached from trying to suppress a smile; he bit down on them again. This time he had to keep from wincing. Ain't nothing like nearly biting a chunk out of your own damn mouth.

The man nodded his approval. "You're a _handsome_ young man," he clucked in a low voice, taking his chin between spindly tanned fingers and turning his face upwards as though for inspection. Afraid to blink, he just stared back at the man. Something flickered through them; his chin was let go of. Dark brown eyes turned to the speechless lawyer. Matthew's face felt as though it were after being fire bombed. "I knew you were with a man, but I didn't expect him to be such a _pretty_ little fellow."

"I-I-I-"

Alfred cleared his throat. "Ah, Mattie?" he said weakly. "This is Gupta Hassan. He's, well, he's the State District Attorney..."

Suddenly, Matthew Williams found himself longing to be buried alive. Somewhere close to the Earth's core.

"A pleasure to meet you," the attorney said with a polite smile, extending his hand. Matthew fumbled as he went to shake it, praying to whoever was listening that it didn't feel sweaty. "I've heard a bit about you from Arthur - I trust you know who he is - and I've heard even less from ol' tight lips over there-" he jerked his head in the other lawyer's direction, earning a splutter for a reaction from the man, "-but enough of that nonsense. I'm loathe of second-hand knowledge. Tell me a bit about yourself."

Floundering briefly, he grappled with a few quick things to say and choked out a few harried lines - I work at a supermarket, I paint in my spare time and I would rather be an artist than a grocery clerk, I'm from Canada, you're making me feel really damn awkward Sir - and sat there as though awaiting the end of the world.

Gupta cocked his head to the side, looked him over one more time and then smiled. "Wonderful," he said with a sage nod before stepping back and looking over to Alfred. "Positively charming. How come you've never introduced us before? Everyone else has introduced me to their respective lovers or wives."

Alfred shuffled his feet, looking uncomfortable. "I … I don't know." He couldn't even bring himself to look over at Matthew, who peered at him with a curiosity equal to the State DA's. That was a good question, one he had never really thought of asking. Trust someone else to bring it up before he did. "I just figured you wouldn't really want to know…"

An awkward silence fell, and the American just stared uneasily at the floor. He felt a pang in his chest and his hands curled into fists as his shoulders slumped a little. Matthew longed to get up, go over to him and just wrap his arms around him. But something kept him rooted to the stool; maybe it was the feeling of Mr. Hassan's eyes still scrutinizing him, possibly gauging him for a reaction.

"Honestly, I don't quite care whether you date a man or a woman," said the man, fingering his earring. It was of a jade ankh. "My son is as gay as a rainbow. And you shouldn't let something as simple as that bother you, really. There's no need for it. Anyway, I'll leave you two to it." Turning to Mattie, he gave a thin-lipped smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, finally betraying his age; despite the smoothness of his skin and the darkness of his hair, he had to be at least in his fifties or sixties. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Williams."

And then he was gone, leaving the couple in silence, breezing in and out of their evening as quickly as that.

They stayed that way for a little while, Matthew still staring up at the wall but not really looking at the numbers - the room still had a calming effect, but it wasn't as prominent as it was before - while Alfred looked at the floor with a muted interest. Perhaps there was a matrix of numbers there, as well? More than likely not.

Sitting and doing nothing wasn't going to do either of them any good, he realized this now. Might as well get off his ass and do something. Standing and approaching the lawyer, Matthew glanced up at him, lifting his hand to trace his fingers around pale lips before pressing forward to give him a short kiss. It was chaste and cool, dry lips just barely moving against his own. When he pulled back, Al was smiling crookedly.

"Sorry," the man mumbled, scuffing at the floor with his shoe.

"Sorry for what?" asked Matthew gently. "Sorry for not wanting to tell your co-workers that you're dating a guy?"

Alfred faltered before he nodded, unable to look him in the eye. Heart clenching, he placed his hands on his broad torso, smoothing out the material of his powder blue dress shirt. The lawyer did not seem to be nonplussed by this; he just continued to stare absently at a lower row of numbers.

Something in the slumping of his shoulders seemed to ask 'how can you not hate me for this?' and Matthew realized he would never be capable of something like that. Despite the ground he had stood on before, he wouldn't be able to hate him - not for something as simple as this. Or maybe as complex.

Hands restless, he started to fiddle with Al's tie, straightening and tugging uselessly at it. Warm hands moved to cover his, to still them. Curling his fingers around them, Matthew sighed. "Honestly Alfred, I don't care if you ever 'come out' to them, or so to speak," he said in a hushed voice. The hands he held onto tensed briefly. "Our relationship is _our _relationship, and that's _that_. What you do in your private life doesn't need to be known in your public one. And I know that you're afraid of people saying shit to you about dating a guy. It happens more than it should. Frankly, I don't blame you with being uncomfortable about that; I know I was for the first little while." He shrugged. "And given your line of work, it _is _kind of hard to figure out what way it would be taken. So don't worry about it, okay? You just need to relax Princess, and forget about the opinions of people that don't matter and focus on the things that _do_ matter."

Pausing, he nodded slowly. "Like getting some McDonalds when we leave here?" Alfred offered timidly, pressing their foreheads together. Their glasses made a clinking sound when they collided.

Snorting, Matthew shoved the older man's head away and rolled his eyes, taking his hand as they left the room. Trust him to ruin a moment like that with the concerns of his stomach. "Yeah, yeah," he said, waving his hand dismissively, relinquishing his grip, only to be pulled close again by a strong arm returning to his waist. He grinned stupidly. "We can go get some food that'll rot out your insides."

"_Perfect_," Alfred crowed. "Because I'm sorry, but I'd rather puke blood than eat caviar." He drained back the rest of his champagne in a rather inelegant way, setting the empty glass down on a tray and grabbing a fresh one. Quiet for a second, Matthew found himself agreeing.

Anything was better than fish eggs.

Falling back into a comfortable silence once more, the two continued to wander about the gallery, only stopping to view paintings and make comments on the awkwardness of a particular sculpture made from what appeared to be yo-yos. It teetered to one side, frozen in a perpetual lean to the right that said if hit with enough force and in the right place, it could send the project flying. Hard enough as it was to tell what it was in the first place, neither man really commented on the piece; except for Matthew saying that it looked like a toy store had thrown up. Or at least a discount bin at the toy store had. That was what made it so awesome though.

Wondering if he should attempt more than just painting, he considered his options. He didn't have the patience to write, or to put together a sculpture. Sure it was fun to be able to view something he had created and give it multiple visual angles instead of the typical flat canvas, but he didn't have the time to do something like that.

(Maybe he could try something like knitting. Knitting was always fun; if little old biddies could enjoy it then so could he.)

There were a few sculptures made from children's toys - including a terrifyingly large house of cards. As they walked through it, Matthew held his breath in fear that exhaling a little too hard would send the fragile house surrounding them crashing to the floor. Alfred seemed keen to pick and poke at some of the cards, casting sly glances about as he would press his fingertips against the surface of the cards as they walked through the replica-home (there was a living room with furniture made of cards, a kitchen and what was supposedly a bathroom). Each time he reached out, Matthew gave him a smack, hissing at him to behave and that he was not supposed to touch anything he saw because Jesus Christ if something fell apart they would be so fucked and he would never _ever _go on another date to an art gallery with the goddamn asshole because he was just such a gigantic child and could not keep his hands to his self.

When Alfred asked in a low voice, smirking all the while (_the fucker_) if it would be acceptable to keep his hands all over _him _instead, Matthew didn't know how to answer. Instead he just turned red, huffed and pointed out how cool it was to make a chesterfield out of cards. Jones seemed properly smug, copped a feel that made the younger man let out a shrill yelp and tried to feign innocence. He failed quite miserably, but he was lucky enough to get away unscathed (not because Matthew enjoyed the tiny grab, most certainly _not_). He was just being nice this evening and quite merciful.

Once they left the card house, they went back to observing the paintings - all that remained was the third floor, although what was there had been works viewed by the artists themselves that they loved. A nice, original sort of touch to the place.

Fingers skimming a silver platter being carried by a waiter, he deftly snatched up a kielbasa sausage skewered on a toothpick with a piece of diced marble cheese, dragging it off with his teeth and chewing thoughtfully.

Alfred gave him a look that said, 'I thought you didn't like those little finger foods?' eyebrow quirked and a small smirk on his lips as he drained back what remained of his champagne.

Matthew gave him an impassive glare in return that politely told him to go fuck himself.

Superior levels of communication. No other relationship in the world could even compare to what they had going for them. And they just kept getting better and better every single day. Need a lesson? Take one from them.

Fishing their tour of the open area of the gallery, the two men wandered into another small room. This one was empty of any other visitors. Bathed in darkness, it was hard to make out what was in the room until they stopped and looked around, spotting the television mounted on the wall. The screen was mostly dark as it was on the pause menu. There were no other options - no scene selection, no 'bonus features'. Just 'Play Film'. Highly simplistic; nice for a change. There was a woman in a white dress, odd lighting causing her hair to take on a flaming shade of red and her skin a frighteningly ashen shade. She was pretty but in a haunting, ethereal sort of way that made the Canadian feel cold.

Without any prompting, Alfred picked the DVD remote up off of the little stand in front of the wall-mounted plasma screen and pressed play, the images flickering across his glasses; pale lighting illuminating his features and sharpening them, making him look leaner than what he already was. Matthew didn't quite know whether to watch the television or the way the light played games across his boyfriend's face because both were equally fascinating. He opted for the video, however, because he could always look at the way light caused havoc on the man's face at any other time.

Eyes now adjusted to the darkness, he could see when he looked away from the screen the text written all over the walls. Words cascaded in the same way the numbers had in the Pi Room, but this did not leave him with a sense of ease, but instead proved to make him jittery; he wanted to read everything at once but he did not know where the look first. Undisturbed by his lover's plight, Alfred continued to watch the video, hands tucked into his back pockets and a look of utter concentration on his face. Pulling his eyes away from the words, he went back to focusing on the video. The footage lasted for all of half an hour, but it was probably some of the single most interesting stuff he had seen in a long time.

And there were times when it helped to have a lovely model that actually knew what she was doing when it came to acting without dialogue.

Gilbert had asked him to do that once, but he had bombed completely. Acting just wasn't something he was capable of doing, whether it was with a script or without. He just froze up and lost any and all ability to use different tones of voice and when he spoke _everything suddenly sounded like his grade eight science teacher that never took breaths in between sentences and the man clearly did not enjoy his job very much because honestly maybe he would have used a little more verbal inflection and he might have been able to explain the definition of biodiversity without half of his class passing out cold. _

His science teacher had been a brilliant man, just terribly boring.

Silence hung over the room once more and Alfred stepped back, bumping into a woman behind them. He apologized, stepping around her. There was a small group of people after amassing behind them, watching the video with the same sort of enraptured expression as what the couple had.

"That was … interesting," Matthew said quietly. "They had a nice location for filming, and the actress knew what she was doing. But that beginning part, with her just sort of … crouched in the picture frame. That was creepy as hell and absolutely beautiful."

The woman standing behind him made a noise of agreement, catching his attention. "Wasn't it though?" she said in a pleasant voice. Blonde hair was framed her delicate face in a well-maintained bob. "And she's rather pretty, too."

"I really don't understand why she had sex with the dude that killed her," blurted out a guy stood in the back. "But whatever, that was totally awesome."

Laughter followed his statement. Alfred turned to him, grinning. "Maybe that just goes to show that this culture is a little bit obsessed with sex?"

"Hey, maybe that was the point of that scene then, in a backhanded sort of way?" said the guy at the back with a shrug. "I've heard of people doing that; incorporating sex scenes for the sake of it being some kind of reverse commentary about there being too much sex in mainstream media."

"And that sort of thing is actually pretty effective," Alfred said. "If not kind of stupid; they're just showing more sex, whether it's tasteful or vulgar, while trying to make the point that there's too much sex being shown. Then again it kind of cancels it out. Unless what they're ultimately aiming to achieve is some sort of mass desensitization of the subject and just turn everyone off from visual sex, as such."

"But that would destroy the porn industry," the guy retaliated. "And something like that could set off a potential chain reaction, starting with independent film makers. If it ended up being disastrous enough, then it could work its way to the minor film companies in Hollywood. From the minor it goes to the major - like Fox, Warner Brothers - and then before we know it _bam _there goes Disney and MGM Studios!"

"Well, that's what home movies are for," the criminal prosecutor said with a cryptic smile. Some of the film-viewers laughed, including the guy at the back. "So there you go, crisis averted. Case dismissed."

"Well at least there wasn't any tits flyin' all ov'a the place," a woman snorted. "So that much of it was tasteful."

The discussion died off after the comment and some of the people left while two or three remained to read the words lining the walls. Dispersing from the group, Alfred slid his arm back around Matthew's waist. Chuckling, Mattie bumped their hips together, looking over to the other man. The laywer was grinning.

"These things aren't too awful," said Al, looking thoughtful. He stroked an imaginary beard, pausing mid-step to read a piece of poetry framed on the wall. It had been crafted from various lines from magazine articles. "Maybe we should go to stuff like this more often?"

"I wouldn't complain," the Canadian said lightly; he was smiling. "Too bad all art galleries aren't as varied as this one; it's nice for a change."

"Actually," a voice interjected from behind them, causing the two men to jump and Alfred to subconsciously pull away from his boyfriend (Matthew couldn't help but feel his heart sink a little). While he did not know the man's name, he knew he was one of the artists; he had been one of the speakers from earlier on in the evening. "There are a few gallery owners hoping to open up some spots that are more like this. Mainly in Brooklyn, I think. And possibly SoHo."

"That's exciting," Matthew said, glancing over to Alfred. The man nodded. "Maybe we should go to a few of those spots if the projects actually get off the ground."

The artist before them frowned, and then pointed at the Canadian. "You look awfully familiar, you know that?"

Familiar? Matthew balked, pulling back a little and looking away for a brief moment as he tried to find something to say. All he could manage was an uncomfortable-sounding, 'oh?'

He chuckled apologetically, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "What's your name, kid?"

"Matthew Williams," offered the young man, almost hesitantly. As he spoke he felt Alfred's arm return to his waist.

There was a moment's hesitation and then the artist stared at him. "You are a gigantic fucking liar."

"Um, no I'm not?"

Pausing, the artist continued to stare at him. Then: "I knew it," he said with a laugh. "I damn well knew it. Wait right here. I'll be back in a second." Backing away from the two startled and clearly perplexed men, he stepped out into the central part of the gallery, shouting out in a different language.

When he returned a moment later, there was another man accompanying him - one of the other artists - and Matthew felt all the blood drain from his face. And it seemed the other artist had the exact same reaction as his skin blanched and his knees visibly buckled.

"Holy. _Shit_."

Shrill laughter escaped the Canadian and he stepped away from Alfred, feeling lightheaded. So this was how he would react. Barely acknowledging the fact that he was drawn into a tight embrace at first, he felt startlingly lucid, and Matthew then wrapped his arms firmly around Lar's shoulders, laughing again but this time feeling a little more grounded than the first time around. Lips pressed against his cheek, there was a muttering of breathy Dutch - words that made him shiver - and then his former teacher pulled back, gray eyes glassy.

From the look on his face, Alfred was obviously quite lost, so he sank back and said nothing, folding his arms over his chest.

"Good God_, look _at you," he muttered, eyes roaming over his former lover, hands placed firmly on the tops of his arms. "You look _wonderful_. How have you been? You never returned any of my emails, or my letters. I thought maybe handwriting some shit to you would be nice but-"

"Oh _hush_, Lars," Matthew chuckled, settling back, fighting back the urge to touch the older man's face. He would be what now, thirty-one now? Thirty-two? That didn't matter. "I've … I've been good. And I had no way of getting anything you sent me; Jaso-"

"Bullshit," the man scoffed, interrupting with a derisive snort. "You had internet acess, didn't you?"

Matthew's face fell and he looked away, shaking his head. Still just as headstrong and potentially as impulsive as ever. Believing what he wanted to believe; hearing what he wanted to hear. Some things never changed. "Jason kicked me out when I turned eighteen," he said in a dry voice.

The Dutchman fell silent, expression uncomprehending for a moment but then his eyes darkened. "That bastard," he hissed, lip curling at the corner. "I told you you should have come with me to Amsterdam when you graduated. I fucking _told_ you."

"You and I both know that wasn't actually a fesiable option," the young man said in a quiet voice, giving in and lightly touching his chin. It was smooth; freshly shaven, just as always. Lars took his hand and held onto it tightly, bringing his fingers to his mouth and pressing them to his lips. He flushed.

"Awkward boyfriend is feeling _awk_-ward," came a sing-song voice from behind them. Lars looked up and away from his once lover, eyes widening and Matthew laughed, pulling his fingers away.

"Lars, this is Alfred," Matthew said, grabbing the antsy lawyer by the hand and tugging him forward to stand beside him. There was no resistance. "He's my awkward boyfriend."

Alfred puffed his cheeks and huffed; Lars just cackled.

"Hello Alfred, the awkward boyfriend," the artist teased with a smile. He extended a hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Hesitant, Jones looked between Matthew and his former lover, caught the grin on the smaller man's face and then visibly relaxed. "Nice to meet you too, man." Grasping his hand, they shook and Matt felt this immense sense of ease take over him; it wasn't that he had expected Lars to dislike Al. It was actually the other way around.

"It's not very often I take him out in public," said the Canadian in a whisper that was meant to be heard, jerking his head in his boyfriend's direction. "You'll have to forgive him."

"He seems uncomfortable. I take it Gilbert and his father have been to the poor bastard?"

"We weren't even dating a week and he had a gun or two waving in his face."

"Ah, those are good memories." He paused. "Fucking psychos."

"The lot of 'em."

Alfred was blissfully confused, but quite content over the fact that it did not seem as though he were going to be given any verbal death sentences any time soon.

The group was silent for a moment. "By the way," Lars said slyly, "you should probably check out a certain mural upstairs and then come back here and report your findings. Awkward Boyfriend and I will chill out here and chat while you go and do that, mmkay?"

Glancing between the two men, watching as Alfred gave a shrug of indifference, he nodded and stepped back. "Okay then," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Watching as the Canadian left, Alfred folded his arms across his chest and looked down at the floor, not quite knowing what to say. There were questions he wanted to ask the man, but he didn't know how to word them so he opted for silence.

Lars, however, would not have it. "So, Awkward Boyfriend Alfred," he said with a sardonic grin, "what do you do for a living?"

"I'm the DA for Manhattan," he said with a small smile of his own. Gray eyes widened and the Dutchman looked impressed. "I have been for the past two years now."

"Very nice," the artist commented. He cackled. "Better salary than a teacher's salary, lucky bastard."

Alfred chuckled. "There's a good chance that it might be, yeah."

They fell silent again, and when Lars spoke again, his grin was even darker than before. "Obligatory question now," he purred, sidling close to the American. The man smelt of cologne, cigarette smoke, champagne and something that reeked suspiciously of marijuana. "Have you guys done it yet?"

Running his hand down over his face the lawyer groaned. First his friends, and now a guy he didn't even know - but Matthew knew him, intimately apparently, so it wasn't too awful - was asking him (when it came to the guys it bordered on harrassment). "No," he muttered. "We haven't. We've only been together, what, almost four months now?"

He gave a low whistle. "How cute," he hummed. "He must really like you then. Oh, and a word of advice: he's very good with his mouth and his tongue. And not just kissing, either. Keep that in mind. Also, can you speak any other languages?"

Pulling back a little, Alfred gave him a suspicious look. "Yeah, I do," he said. "Italian, Mexican Spanish and European Spanish, German, Russian, some shoddy Chinese and Japanese, and a bit of Greek. Basically the major languages in all the different bouroughs. Why?"

"Boy has a language kink." Lars was positively gleeful; Alfred's eyes lit up like Christmas. He and this man were officially friends now. He sidled up close and spoke in a low whisper. "I don't know, maybe he was just really fuckin' aroused or something, but I wasn't really doing too much to him. Just touching, y'know? But I spoke some Dutch to him, like, right low in his ear and shit, and he might have came in his pants. Thought I'd pass on the information and you can use it to your advantage."

Turning to the man and staring at him, Jones nodded slowly. "That is fucking amazing," he said. "You are my new best friend, got it?"

Laughing, the Dutchman gave him an affable pat on the shoulder. "I knew I liked you when I saw you. We're gonna get along perfectly, Alfred. Just fuckin' perfectly."

When Matthew got back down from the third floor, his cheeks were bright pink and he was completely floored, eyes wide and an astonished look on his face. "I ... I'm on a _wall_. Jesus Christ. I'm on a fucking _wall_."

"Why yes, Matthew, yes you are," responded the Dutchman. Alfred snickered, ducking his head to hide the turncoat of a smirk he wore. Matthew shot the two men a look that was caustic. "I'm quite pleased to see that your observational skills have yet to abandon you."

"Go fuck yourself."

"And it's damn well nice to see your standard comeback has yet to fail you, either." Lars shot the American standing beside him a sidelong glance, wearing a shit-eating grin. Jones burst out laughing. Williams suddenly wondered just what the hell it was he saw in either of them. Little monsters, the pair of them. Needless to say they had become best friends while he had been gone for not even five minutes.

"Now, now," Al said, approaching the Canadian, grinning. "What's this about you being on a wall, Pet?"

"I'm on a fucking _wall." _Grabbing him by the hand and tugging, he didn't quite care if the man wanted to follow him or not. There was no way he was going to explain it when he could just show him.

Dragging the laughing American behind him, and then up over the flight of stairs - Lars was trailing behind them, grinning smugly - he wound his way around other people in the gallery. Towards the back of the designated space was a black and white picture spanning across a small wall. It looked as though it had been scanned from a newspaper (that's because it had been). A youth leant against an extensive piece of graffiti - and when the youth had been asked, he had not referred to it as graffiti but as art - and he looked cocky; haughty and defiant in every sense of the words. He was covered in splatters of paint and the mural he stood before depicted a morbidly humorous Cold War of sorts.

Matthew stopped dead and then pointed. "Alfred, I'm on a fucking _wall_."

Slowing to a stop, eyes widening, the man looked between his boyfriend and the picture several times. "Jesus," he breathed. "You _are_ on a wall."

"I told you I'd get you in a gallery someday," Lars said quietly as he came up to stand behind Matthew. He rested his chin on the younger man's shoulder and gave him a side-long glance, smiling a little. "Do you like it?"

Turning, Matthew said nothing and just latched onto his friend, shutting his eyes and trying to bite back against the burning in his throat. He felt the rumble of Lars' chest as he chuckled.

"Poor darling is emotional," he crooned, running a hand through pale blonde hair and lightly messing it.

From where he was with his face buried, he heard Alfred laugh and felt a warm hand gently squeeze his shoulder. He didn't know why, but he felt the overwhelming need to just stand there and cry over the fact that a piece he had gotten suspended and fined over was up in a gallery.

When he pulled away, he gave a watery laugh, wiping at his eyes with the palms of his hand. "Thanks, Lars," he whispered, blinking rapidly. "I can't believe you would go as far as to do that…" And then he moved from Lars' grasp to Alfred's, sliding in against his side and just resting his cheek on his shoulder. The older man kissed his temple and smiled, a proud sort of look on his face.

Quiet laughter. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked. "It was supposed to be things that inspired us, right? And honestly, after you did that, I wanted to paint again for myself in a way I hadn't wanted to since I was at least your age now. So … it fits."

"I pissed off so many people with that," Matthew muttered, shaking his head as a smile slowly curved his lips upwards.

"Such a shame they made you clean it off the wall behind the gym," said Lars with a wistful sigh. "And fined you for destruction of private property. I almost feel bad for having goaded you into doing that." Matthew shot him a look. Lars held his hands up. "Hey man, I said _almost._"

"I remember seeing this," Alfred said suddenly, eyes widening. Matthew looked up at him, surprised. "In the newspaper, at least. I was doing research back in November for a case I was working at the time, and I was going through old newspapers, and I came across this. This was before you would willingly breathe the same air as me, by the way, so I thought it was pretty cool."

Snickering, Matthew pinched Alfred's cheek. "There are still times I don't want to breathe the same air as you," he commented, "because you keep contaminating it with stupid."

Slapping his boyfriend's hand away, he scowled and rubbed at the sore spot on his face. "You're such a little prick at times."

"But I'm the greatest prick ever," he said smugly, pressing against him.

"More like you got the greatest prick ever. Or at least you _had_ it," Lars muttered into his hand, quickly looking away and then ducking as Matthew made a swipe for him with a vicious curse attached to it.

Some things never changed.

* * *

It was almost two in the morning by the time he got back to Alfred's place after being 'kidnapped' by the Dutchman to spend the evening with him at his apartment - the same old apartment, just a little stale-smelling from how long it had been closed up - to catch up with the man and talk about everything that had happened in their lives from the time Lars had left to them now, sitting in his living room, drinking wine and laughing.

On the other side of Manhattan, it was essentially the same thing happening, less the bottle of wine. When he first got home, Alfred didn't entirely know what to do; it was only around ten o'clock, so that made it too early to go to bed but too late to actually go out anywhere and do something. Anyway, his pyjama pants looked way too comfortable to give up on just yet. So the entire while he just crashed on his sofa, XBOX 360 controller in hand and a headset on as he, Jeff, Allan and Chris played a multiplayer match on Modern Warfare Two, which included something akin to a screaming match each time one of them got killed.

Needless to say, he and Chris had been targeting one another the entire evening and the majority of the vulgar language came from them. The DA favoured the grenade launcher - neutralizing the threat from a distance - while the other favoured the claymores, placing them all over the place and essentially creating miniature minefields.

(Jeff openly admitted to being there for the shits and giggles of listening to the two lawyers playing against one another. It didn't take much longer for Allan to admit to the exact same thing.)

The hands on the clock read that it was just a little bit after two in the morning, and by that time he and Chris were the only ones playing - and after their last match, when they had maybe gotten five kills each because they were talking more than what they were concentrating on the game, that was when they decided to give it up for the evening; it really didn't help that Chris had a hearing to attend the next morning. He was in the process of shutting down the game system when the door to his condo opened and shut quietly. Glancing over as he set down the controller before flopping back in the chair, Alfred smiled at the Canadian, unable to help the widening smile when he saw the stupid grin on his face.

"Have fun?" he asked quietly as the young man approached him. From where he was sat he could smell the wine on him, but his eyes were clear and his steps were even - it would take more than a few small glasses of wine to get him drunk. The two had probably shared a bottle.

Flopping down in front of the table, looking up at the man, he nodded, smiling oddly. "Yeah, I did," he hummed. "It was nice to see him again, y'know? We just drank wine, talked and I watched him as he painted. It was basically what we used to do, just less a few things."

Alfred's smile tightened a little and a knot formed in his stomach; his laughter was weak. "Glad to hear that," he said distractedly, rubbing his face tiredly.

Or at least to feign exhaustion; he just didn't want to admit that he had been a teensy bit nervous about Matthew going over with Lars to his place. It was stupid, he knew. But maybe it was just a typical insecurity? He had been contemplating calling Chris and making the man reassure him, but before Jeff and Allan had joined the game, he had mentioned it and the other lawyer told him not to worry. This was his first relationship, right? It was perfectly normal to be a little bit neurotic for the first couple of months until he was totally used to the swing of things. And hey, for all he knew, Matthew could probably feel the exact same way about him when he went out on the town without him; it wasn't like the younger man was oblivious to his boyfriend's former dalliances with prostitutes.

Surprisingly enough, he hadn't been reluctant to agree with the man. Instead he had been eager to do so, seeing reason in what he had said. So he had pushed it out of his mind and-

He froze.

Since when had Matthew been straddling him?

Never mind that; since when had Matthew started to fiddle with his shirt? Alfred blinked. Slowly, several times, as though to reassure himself that this was actually happening and suddenly he felt his pulse spike and his body begin to warm when he felt lips and teeth graze his neck. The kisses were gentle, barely there at first, but then when he ran his hands through blonde curls and pressed a kiss of his own to the back of his ear; they came a little harder as Mattie pressed closer.

"Ah, h-_hey_," he managed (barely), "what are you doing?"

Indigo eyes trained on his and Matthew smirked, teeth grazing the man's jaw. Fingers were twisting in inane doodles on his chest, smoothing along his torso and playing with the black tie he still wore. "I 'unno," he murmured, "It depends on what you _want_ me to do."

Oh.

Alfred's mind suddenly drew a blank.

_Oh. _

Taking the man's stunned silence as a sort of a permission to proceed - then again, there was no way Alfred was going to stop Matthew from doing whatever it was he was going to do and he had a damn good idea about where it could possibly be going - he resumed kissing at him, teasing with nimble fingers along his chest. Relaxing beneath the light ministrations, Alfred just sank into the chair and ran his hands along the lithe young man's sides. Occasionally they kissed, a messy affair involving more tongue and teeth than usual, heavy breathing, biting and closely entangled limbs included.

With little to no warning a hand slid in between them and the lawyer let out a whine, covering his mouth as his leg twitched a little. The touches were hesitant at first, and it took the lawyer giving a slight rock of his hips to encourage him. Glancing up at him for a moment, Mattie gave him a tiny smile, eyes searching.

Alfred gave a low hiss, "If you're going to touch me, then fucking _touch _me. Don't be a goddamn _pansy_ about it."

A dark sort of snigger left Matthew as he nipped hard at Alfred's neck, nipping at the skin and earning a pleased grunt in return, continuing to put pressure on him with his palm. Biting his lower lip and tugging it into his mouth as they kissed again, this time the Canadian let out a soft purr of enjoyment. His hand pressed harder as a result and Al arched a little, mouth opening but nothing leaving him as lips returned to his neck. He'd have to wear high-collared shirts for a week after this.

"You're awfully _sensitive_," he murmured into the smooth skin by his lips.

Flushing, Alfred shut his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. Deep inhales and exhales through his nose. It wasn't working, at all; all he could smell with wine and a lingering, faint cologne which only. The only thing it did was arouse him more. "Maybe," he murmured. "Or it might have something to do with the fact that I haven't, um … done anything … since April. And I haven't done anything with anyone else since January."

The touching stopped and Alfred whined at the loss of sensation. "My boyfriend," the artist deadpanned before sliding off of his lap, "the Nun."

Mimicking what the younger man had snarked, Alfred gave him a light smack across the top of his head. "Shut up an-"

"And what?" Matthew interjected. "Shut up and what?"

The American froze, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Oh, he knew _exactly_ what he wanted his boyfriend to do. He was right where he wanted him and it was as easy as saying two little words; telling him to put his mouth to a better use. But the moment he tried to speak, he faltered and looked away nervously. It was as if even though his body wanted Matthew to keep on doing what he was doing, his mind was too on-edge to let him know. Bright eyes behind crooked glasses softened and Matthew drew himself up further, taking the man's chin between his fingers and forcing him to look.

"What do you want me to do?" His voice was light, gentle, as was his expression. Before he was given a chance to answer a finger trailed down over the front of his jeans, pressuring him along the zipper, and he positively trembled because he could just feel himself coming undone with the utmost ease. "Or maybe I have an idea about what you want and I should just go with that idea?"

Weakly, Alfred nodded, running his hand through his hair as Matthew gave a knowing chuckle.

For another little while the hand remained on him, pressing and palming and teasing and soon enough he had slid down partway in the chair, back arching occasionally as he bit his lip to keep in any noises. He hated to admit it, but his boyfriend knew exactly what it was he was doing. He kept his eyes shut, and when he would open them to glance down to his lover, the look of concentration on his face, along with something that might have been akin to adoration and longing. It made him tremble; caused his stomach to quiver. Unable to do anything of any benefit for him, Alfred simply ran his hands through the Canadian's hair and murmured pleased-sounding nonsense, encouraging him on further; whispering in that way of his for him to keep going.

It was when his pants were unzipped and fingers were on the hem of his boxers did he freeze, eyes flying open. He barely had a chance to acknowledge the cold air on his bare flesh when suddenly Matthew's mouth was on him and he didn't know what to do or what to think because _his boyfriend was doing very interesting things with that little mouth of his_. He let out a soft 'ah', shutting his eyes and biting down on his lower lip, mindlessly spreading his legs a little further.

Awareness of time and place became a foreign concept because the only thing Alfred was aware of was the heat surrounding him; the occasional hum that caused him to whine and tense; deft, lissom fingers working along him. He kept twisting his wrist in just the right way, kept putting the right pressure along him with his tongue, and maybe it had to do with the fact that it had been _months _since anyone had done something like this to him, but the next thing he knew, he was arching with a choked noise, biting on his knuckles as he felt his abdomen tense.

(Glancing up to him, Matthew blinked slowly as he took in his lover's flushed and dishevelled appearance, smirked and kept his steady rhythm that had the promise of a sore mouth and a kinked neck in a short period of time.)

"S-Sh_it_," he choked out, a hand covering his mouth. There was a little more aggression being put against him and it was getting harder to breathe; harder to think. Another soft curse passed his lips and he went back to alternating between biting his lip and digging his fingers into the arm of the chair.

And then, when he found Matthew's nose flat against his groin and a certain tightness engulfing him, something that wasn't quite English left him. He doubled forward and pressed his forehead against the spot between his lover's shoulder blades. Trembling, he stayed there, breathing heavily with his eyes screwed shut, one hand on his mouth and the other fisted into the material of the younger man's dress shirt. It was too warm all of a sudden; _he felt way too good. _

Pulling back as Matthew pulled away, he sat there limply in the arm chair, staring blankly at him. The Canadian's cheeks were bright pink, his lips scarlet and his eyes were glassy as he wiped at his chin. Alfred was about to speak when he noticed the odd look on his face. Flushing when he realized what it was for, he coughed awkwardly into his hand. "You, ah, don't have to … y'know … _swallow_," he squirmed a little as a look of relief crossed his boyfriend's face.

Standing, the Canadian scampered off to the kitchen and bent over the sink, running the water for a moment.

Alfred, on the other hand, lay there in a daze as he fixed his pants. That had been highly unexpected, blessedly amazing and he didn't care about what his sudden motivation to do that had been - there was ten bucks willing to be wagered that Lars had something to do with it, and more than likely the bastard had goaded him into it by telling him he was a pansy for not having done anything at all yet. Honestly, he didn't give a _shit_ about what the motivation had been; he was just glad he had done it.

Dropping down onto his lap, earning a grunt of surprise, Matthew draped his legs across the arm of the chair as he put his head down on his shoulder. Alfred glanced down at him. "What was all that for?" he asked quietly, kissing his forehead.

Shrugging, he pressed in close. "I 'unno," he said evasively, giving a coy smile. "You've seemed sort of tense lately, so I figured I'd try and ease some of that 'stress'?"

"Your methods are _flawless_," Al groaned, head hitting the back of the chair as he stared up at the ceiling, listening to his laughter. Then, with a moment's thought and considering the fact that he could feel warmth radiating from the other's body - a very distinct sort of warmth - he took Matthew by the hips and swivelled him around so that his back was pressed up against his torso, legs dangling on the outside of his own legs. Licking at lips that were dry, he smirked.

Indigo eyes widened and he craned his neck back to peer at the lawyer. "A-Al?"

"Don't tell me you're not turned on in even the _slightest_," he murmured, hesitating a moment before he palmed him lightly. It would be a flagrant lie to say he wasn't aroused. Matthew's reaction was instantaneous; he gapsed as the zipper pressed against him, biting his lip as his eyes widened a fraction. Alfred licked his lips again, chuckling darkly, kissing his jaw. To say he didn't look gorgeous like this would _also_ be a flagrant lie. "Don't tell me you can take care of yourself, either."

Matthew lay against him, breathing heavily from that one touch. With a certain amount of hesitation, he reached back and ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Only if you're comfortable with this," he said weakly. "Because honestly, I would rather you do this than my sad little hand. But if you're not ready-"

Laughing, he nodded and placed his hand back again. "I'm okay with this. Promise. Don't worry," he said quietly into his ear, loving how Matthew writhed briefly before settling again, "I'll be better than your 'sad little hand'."

(At least he hoped he would be; for all he knew, Matthew could be a goddamn wizard when it came to that, too.)

* * *

_That awkward moment when the author tries to write a subtle blowjob but doesn't know if she made it subtle enough to keep the rating from changing. _

8|

LMAO ANYWAY. UM. I. WELL. LOL I FEEL SO FLUSTERED WOW - this is why I have been putting off writing actual sex because oh my God it will take me forever and a day to actually put the shit together - I HOPE IT WAS OKAY?

Now! Because we all know I'm not actually that creative, I kind of helped myself to some other exhibits. For the most part, I did use my own ideas. But there were three that I took the liberty of including:

'Woodrow' by Graeme Patterson; I saw this exhibit two years ago, and it was absolutely amazing! Definitely one of my favourites. www . graemepatterson WoodrowMapFrameSet . htm

The Pi Room was part of a gigantic Douglas Coupland exhibit that I saw four years ago or so, and it was just one of those things that stuck with me as the most calming and serene thing I've ever seen. Not to mention this is one of my favourite exhibits ever lmao. Check it out here: www . coupland 2009 / 03 / 22 / art-play-again/

Now, the video they watched. I saw this a few weeks ago and, honestly, I was pretty chilled by it. It was creepy, weird, beautiful, interesting, and just idek. Fantastic. I highly recommend reading the story before you actually watch the videos; while I don't know if this has ever been put in a gallery for public viewing, I still think it's worth a mention and a show. Check it out here: ghosts . lovevolution

Don't forget to take out the spaces!

Thanks so much for all the reviews, guys! Holy shit I can't believe it's almost at 600 haah wow I didn't think it would ever get to this point. ;w; -hearts-

LOVE LOVE LOVE UNTIL NEXT TIME.


	30. Chapter 30

**CHAPTER THIRTY.**

The supermarket was quiet. Quiet as in 'drop a pin on the front end and you'll hear it in the warehouse'.

Probably because it was three in the morning, but all the same, the supermarket was quiet. Despite hating working overnight shifts, Matthew rathered being in the building when the store was emptied of anyone other than employees. He could actually get work done then (even if he happened to be half asleep for a good portion of his shift) and it was easier to concentrate, and there were no customers approaching him to ask where this or that was, and the answer usually ended up being 'on the shelf right behind you'. While he wanted to add in 'you stupid fucking imbecile' to each time he said that sentence, that could be considered impolite and there was a chance something like that could potentially cost him his job.

Although it would probably be worth it to see the look on their faces if he did let something like that slip.

Seated on the floor in the cereal aisle, Matthew set down his box cutter and leant back against the trolly stacked with boxes and picked up his can of Red Bull, downing some of it. This was his fifth can of the shit in twelve hours; he had worked the night shift last night, and then he had worked that day, slept maybe two hours and now here he was again, working another night shift.

Once again, the vicious cycle was upon him. No matter how hard he tired, it would not leave him be.

"I should be sleeping," he muttered to no one in particular - maybe the tiles were listening? - as he stared at the rim of his drink. "I should be fucking _sleeping _right now."

Just when he was finally getting proper sleeping cycles, he was always given two or three night shifts in the same week; apparently it was because he was one of the few grocery clerks they had that was reliable to stay in the store and work until the trucks coming up (or down, if they were headed from New Brunswick or Nova Scotia) the Eastern seaboard showed up with cargo. Sometimes Mathias worked with him, and every once in a while Gilbert did, but it was usually some of the older guys - men that couldn't get jobs elsewhere because of a lack of education or motivation - that he didn't talk to. Ever. Those shifts were uncomfortable affairs. All work and no talk.

However, he was exceptionally lucky this particular night (even though this was his third night shift in a row and he was beginning to feel a smidgen like the living dead), because both Mathias _and _Gilbert were in grocery with him, and it was just the three of them because the other guys had gone home around two when they got a call from one of the truckers, telling them there were problems with his truck's engine and it wouldn't be until around noon the day after that it would show up.

Sloshing the energy drink around in the can, he gnawed on the rim. Maybe he could sit here for the rest of his shift and just stare off into space. When six o'clock rolled around, he could fill out the last few forms and then punch out at seven-thirty, before the store opened and before he got roped into a four hour cash shift that would magically turn into an eight hour cash shift.

Not that he spoke from experience. Because that had totally never happened to him. And it definitely didn't happen the day before, either.

(Sometimes Matthew truly despised his co-workers and their distinct inability to commit at least a little bit of time and effort to their job, whether they liked it or not.)

"Hey, are you _slacking_ you lazy cunt?"

Jerking his head up, the world twisting around him for a brief moment, Matthew flipped Mathias off with a bright smile. "Go fuck yourself, potato mouth," he shot back, throwing a box of Lucky Charms at the Dane. The lanky man ducked with laughter as the cereal went sailing over his head.

"Dude, you just _damaged _a saleable _product,_" he gasped with wide eyes, approaching him with the dented box in his hand and dropping it down on the other man's head. "That's gonna cost you … $3.99. Or is this one of the ones on sale?" He held up the small box and peered at it, and then looked to the sign dangling from the shelf before doing a triple take. "I can't even fuckin' tell. No wonder customers always get the wrong one; it's kind of hard to tell which one is on sale and which one isn't without looking at it a few times."

"It's called opening your eyes and reading the _goddamn sign_," snapped Matthew, straightening out the edges of the box before stuffing the box back on the shelf, giving it a push for good measure. When it didn't fall he took his hand away. "Honestly if people just read what's written on the sign and on the package and _compared _their findings, then maybe the world would be a better place."

"Think it would end world hunger?" Mathias asked, picking up the box cutter and slicing open a new crate of cereal. This one was filled with Special K - all the way down the aisle. He groaned and then dropped the knife on top of the box.

"I don't know about _world hunger_," he said, "but I'm pretty sure there would be reduced stress levels everywhere."

Laughing, the Dane ran a hand through his wild blonde hair before picking a box of Special K up out of the cardboard crate and turning it around in his hands. "People that say they could grocery shop all day piss me off, fascinate me and make me weep for humanity all at the same time," he commented, "because how the fuck can you enjoy wandering around a crowded supermarket for an hour or more? I break out in hives when I'm here longer than twenty, unpaid minutes."

"Is that why you leave when you punch out for a break?"

A grunt. "Damn right," he huffed. "That's also why I get Teit to do all the grocery shopping for our dorm. He can actually get in and out of the place; pick up two hundred bucks worth of food for two weeks in, like, less than an hour. Forty-five minutes, tops. He's a brilliant little fucker."

"Aren't Norwegians supposed to be really time efficient anyway?" the Canadian asked, straightening up from his slumped-over position; he had been resting his weight on the handle of the trolley. He yawned as another wave of exhaustion hit him, eyes blurring and his hearing going fuzzy for a moment; maybe the guys wouldn't mind if he crawled under a display of toilet tissue and slept for about an hour.

"I 'unno," he hummed, scratching his chin and yawning as well. The cursed chain reaction. He sent his friend a dirty look. "I thought it was the Germans that were supposed to be really time efficient."

"Gilbert's half an hour late coming back from his break and he has never showed up on time for a shift, nor did he ever show up on time for class," retorted Williams dryly. "It can't be the Germans we're thinking of."

"Ah, but look at Ludwig," Mathias retaliated easily. "He makes the trains running on time with Mussolini look like absolutely nothing. Mere child's play."

Matthew gave that a bit of thought. "Nah," he said finally, shaking his head as he started to drag the trolley away from the display they were stood in front of and to where the Special K went. "Ludwig's just meticulous to the point of being anal."

The Dane just snickered, ducking his head and hefting up an armful of cereal as the two started to fill the shelves, falling silent as they returned to working.

Despite being boisterous and at times a complete space cadet with a penchant for rebelling against figures of authority because he'd rather do his own thing, Mathias was a surprisingly diligent worker. He showed up on time for all his shifts, he did his work as instructed, and he was cheerful no matter how long he was there for, whether it was a four hour shift or a ten hour shift. And all the while he managed to exude this approachable sort of feeling, (even if he came into work looking like he was ready to pick up an axe and go on an angry Viking rampage and pillage and pilfer a few towns of their sheep and daughters).

They had gone to the same high school, but they had never talked. The guy had transferred from some obscure place in northern Denmark towards the end of grade eleven along with his friend Teit, a Norwegian boy that had moved to Denmark in his early teens. All through their last year of high school they talked maybe a handful of times. Nothing major, just casual conversation about their school's sports teams and sometimes about the art club run by one of the other grade twelve students. That was it. They knew each other by name and site, but nothing else. It was when they ran into each other again at Gilbert's dorm that they actually started to _talk._ After the first few times of them talking, getting over that initial awkwardness of reacquainting yourself with someone you knew before, they quickly fancied themselves as friends; they had more in common than they had thought. It had been surprising to learn that, even though he roomed in an art school dorm, he was actually taking business classes and someday hoped to establish his own environmental protection agency.

But, given where the man came from and the family values they had discussed one evening when a group of them had been taking over Gilbert's room, it wasn't that much of a surprise that he wanted to go down a road like that.

And then, each time he thought about what someone else wanted to do, he was always brought back to the same goddamn problem: what was _he _going to do? There was no way in hell he was going to work as a grocery clerk for the rest of his life; he'd kill himself before he even considered that a viable option. Which would, of course, send him into a spiral of wondering if he would go to university, and if he did what he would do there, and what he would do with the degree he got and if he would actually want to do that for the rest of his life…

_Thinking, _Matthew decided as he opened a new box filled with packages of Oatmeal with a renewed viciousness, _is a dangerous hobby._

(This was some more choice logic he had ascertained from the Lamp, and that the key to avoid thinking was to either sleep or to smoke a finely rolled joint. Sometimes doing both would procure the most desirable results. Just another example of the Lamp's flawless logic.)

With this in mind, he went back to doing the thoughtless, menial work required of him. That, too, was also a fairly decent way of avoiding thinking. The more he worked, the number he felt; like his brain was just disintegrating because of the distinct lack of usage it was dealing with. Maybe he needed to look into getting a new job - one that required a little more thought process than this one. It took them the better part of an hour to restock the cereal aisle from one end to the other, on both sides, but by the time they finished Gilbert had finally crawled back from wherever he had disappeared to.

Getting away with a long break during a night shift was as easy as hell, and more often than not the two that were still in the store stopped doing what they were supposed to be doing in favour of either sitting on the floor and discussing various things, or playing with a bean bag Mathias had brought along for the very purpose. Kicking the red-gold-green hemp bag back and forth was a bit more enjoyable than arranging cereals by size, colour and brand name because stuff like that made grocery shopping more appealing to the masses. It was all a gigantic business scheme. The more attractive the stack of product, the easier it was to sell the product and then therefore more money would be made by both the grocer and the company. The same could be said for the different set ups people came across upon entering a supermarket. If it had an appealing layout with bright colours and catchy signs, then the person would be more inclined to buy the product, whether or not they actually needed it. All of which boiled down to the fact that people are suckers as a collective whole.

As Mathias had said, the Canadian had no idea as to how any sane person could enjoy being in a grocery store for more than twenty minutes at a time, unless they were being paid by the hour.

They were in the canned goods aisle, Mathias juggling cans of chicken noodle soup and making his own background music, when Gilbert made himself known again, arms over his head as he stretched.

Shooting him a dirty look, Mathias stopped juggling and scowled at the small man. "Where the fuck did you disappear to?" he demanded, miming throwing a can at his head. Gilbert flinched away and cursed when the Dane burst out laughing.

"I … I kind of fell asleep on my break," he muttered, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. More laughter followed this, including chuckles from Matthew.

"_Oh_," Mathias cooed, "the poor baby needed to take a nappy-wappy. The poor precious little angel."

This time Gilbert was the one that mimed throwing a can, but he decided not to mime it when he could actually throw it.

Ducking out of the way with a yelp, eyes flying wide, the Dane looked over his shoulder to the can on the floor, to the now-smirking Gilbert, to the can once more and then back again. "You _sadist._"

"And you _like _it," Gilbert said, running his tongue across his lips. His smile was only a half one, and Matthew found himself frowning as he watched his friend. "Now get lost; it's your turn to go for a break."

Nodding, he stretched lazily. "I could go for a smoke anyway," he hummed, "so I'll be back in a little while. Don't expect me to be back on time, got it? To compensate, is there anything either of you want me to bring back from that shitty coffee place?"

Beilschmidt turned down the offer while Matthew said he wanted a cinnamon bun and a cup of coffee with four sugars and two creams.

"_Four _sugars?" he asked as if he had misunderstood it when Williams had said it the first time around.

Staring at him with a blank expression, he nodded. "Four sugars or go home."

Contemplating this, Mathias pursed his lips. He was actually considering the idea. "Will you be angry if I don't come back for the rest of my shift then?"

"I will _kill _you _dead _if you don't come back for the rest of your shift," Matthew snarled.

"Well, you can't kill someone _alive, _Birdie," Gilbert said with a thin-lipped smile. "So I don't really think you have much of an option in terms of killing him. And, yeah, if you don't come back for the rest of your shift, I'm definitely jumpin' on the 'Let's Kill Mathias Dead!' bandwagon."

"This is my cue to flee the scene," the Dane said with a cheesy grin on his face, "because the longer I am away from you two, the longer I can put off my imminent demise! Huzzah!"

_**And then there were two.**_

Stretching lazily and hefting up a box of cans with a grunt, eyes widening as he staggered back a bit, Matthew set the cardboard crate on top of the trolley as he started to take the older stock out from the back. Shoving the newer cans towards the back, he hummed quietly to himself. Gilbert, on the other hand, was sat on the floor, slowly removing stock from the very back and checking for outdates.

Watching his friend from the corner of his eye, he noted how lethargic his movements were; he was putting practically no effort into what he was doing at all. While he knew the guy didn't like his job - not one little bit - what he also knew was that he still wasn't this lazy when it came to working, even if he didn't enjoy it. Maybe he was just tired? Hadn't he fallen asleep on his break, or so he had said?

Between them the silence grew, and Matthew felt sense of worry beginning to rise. Gilbert was never this quiet, even when he was tired or in a bad mood; they still talked. Sure the guy was a little more bitter-sounding than usual, and he didn't know what it was to speak without sarcasm. This was unnerving.

By the time he had managed to empty three boxes, a small stockpile growing behind him as he started in on a fourth, Gilbert was only on his first box after finishing the outdate check on the bottom two shelves. Since Mathias had left, he hadn't said anything. The air was suddenly suffocating and he was beginning to wonder if he had done something wrong.

Setting down his box cutter and biting his lower lip, Matthew swallowed against the bile in his throat, stomach churning. Something was wrong. "Hey, Gil?"

The German-American glanced up from his work. "Yeah?"

Matthew swallowed thickly, looking down to the can of peas he held in his hands. They were trembling (his hands, not the peas). "Is … is everything okay?" He looked away from the can and to his ex-boyfriend, not liking the way his expression dimmed, to the point of being withdrawn. This was not exhaustion.

But he was given a sharp grin all the same. "Yeah, everything's just peachy," he said, turning back to the shelf. There was a sort of tenseness in the way he was sat.

"Don't give me that bullshit, Gil," Matthew sighed, rubbing his temple. He shot the man a withering look. "I know you too fucking well to believe that bullshit. Something's wrong. Talk."

Gilbert opened his mouth as though to argue and defy him, but then he wilted on the spot, hanging his head and running his fingers through his hair. Then he patted a spot beside him on the linoleum. "C'mere," he muttered.

Hesitating for a moment, not liking the look he wore, Matthew obliged and dropped the can back into the box and plopped down next to him. Knees drawn to his chest and his arms folded atop them, he rested his cheek there and peered at him. Giving him a sidelong glance, Gilbert scratched at the back of his neck, staring at the shelf and picking up a can of soup, turning it around in his hands a few times, inspecting it, and completely avoiding the matter at hand. Reaching out and stilling the restless hands, they sat there a little longer without any words.

"Long story or short story?" Gil asked suddenly, and Matthew knew he was in for it.

"Short and sweet," he said, not sure whether or not to regret the words once they left his mouth.

Quiet for another moment or two, he just nodded slowly. He didn't want to talk about it - that much was easy to see; he fidgeted, picked at his cuticles, his clothing and the can he held. Doing everything possible to avoid talking. Matthew gave him a poke in the bicep, watching him and Gilbert ducked his head. "This semester I'm doing my internship," he said quietly. "Six weeks working for someone else. I didn't think I was going to find anyone in the area that would let me work with them - or at least willingly - but then I got a phone call. A director from Los Angeles wants me to work with him for the next six weeks; he told me he likes my shit. Says it has potential."

"But Gil, that's _amazing,_" said Matthew, a smile crossing his face. Why was he so beaten up over something like this? Wasn't this what he had wanted since they were in high school? Since before they had even known each other? Was his head on too loose? "Why are you all bent up over this?"

"I'm going to be in LA for the next six weeks," he said quietly. He was biting his lower lip and clenching and unclenching his fist around the can of soup he held. "But, he liked my stuff enough to give me a job with his studio group when I graduate, doing cinematography. So once I finish my internship and I get my degree, I'll be moving back to Los Angeles. Permanently."

"Oh."

Matthew wasn't aware that he had stopped breathing until his eyes blurred over and his chest started to ache. Or maybe that was his heart that had suddenly started to ache - that not breathing business and not the fact that it felt like he was after having the organ ripped out of his chest and stomped upon; it was impossible to tell.

A stagnant pause.

"Yeah."

They didn't say anything after that, not for a while.

Unable to make heads or tails of the situation, Williams just sat there, swallowing steadily and willing himself not to cry because that was embarrassing and he was supposed to be _happy_ for his best friend; this was the opportunity of a lifetime for the guy, something he had always wanted to pursue as a career and God it was amazing to see he was being given the chance to prove himself. After all the work he had put into his studies and into making so many little films, so why did he want to tell him not to go? _Beg _him not to go?

"That's awesome," he managed, his voice resting just above a whisper; if he spoke any louder, his voice was bound to break. A smile appeared on his face of its own accord. "You must be really excited, eh?"

A nod. "Yeah," murmured the man, "I am excited. And … and Roderich said he's going to come with me; he said he doesn't want me being out there by myself and he doesn't want a long-distance relationship. So, he's going to go house-hunting while we're out there for those six weeks, and he'll stay out there for the week I'm back to get my graduation certificate."

Smile slowly slipping, he didn't know how he managed to hold onto it. "Well, at least you won't be going alone? When are you leaving, anyway?"

He looked at him, expression odd. His eyes were rimmed red. "In a week."

Matthew's resilient smile cracked and he covered his mouth, shutting his eyes as tears spilled over. His chest hurt so much and he couldn't breathe and well he didn't really want to breathe for the simple fact he felt like it would just be a precious waste of time. _A week_? That was it? Then, to top all that off, he'd be gone for six weeks, come back for a week and then he would be gone again. This time possibly for good. He wanted to kick and scream; anything to get him to stay. But he couldn't do that (what part of his conscience didn't understand that?). A sob left him, followed by another and another, and the next thing he knew he was being held tight by his friend, a face buried in his hair.

"C'mon," Gil whispered, "no cryin', Birdie. Tears have never looked good on you."

The words only made him cry harder and he held fast to the smaller man, arms wrapped tightly around his torso as he bawled into his shoulder, hands fisted into the back of his shirt. He continued to murmur quietly, telling him not to worry; that he wasn't worth crying over (such an awful lie, a little voice at the back of Matthew's mind hissed) and that they could still text and talk over IM; they still had a week to hang out, get blasted several times and just be general assholes. But he needed to stop crying because he hated seeing any sort of sadness in him. Hated it with a passion.

It wasn't his friend's cajoling him into stopping with the crying, but the growing humiliation that crept over him as he sat there on the floor in his jeans and hoodie, half asleep and a sopping mess. Crying like a child wasn't going to achieve anything other than a runny nose and splitting headache. And yes, as infantile as it might have been, he still didn't want to pull away from his friend so he sat there limply against him, a patch of his back numb from where soothing hands made circular motions. He wanted to say something - _anything _- but words eluded him.

Crying over the reality of not seeing his best friend for a long time had legitimate backings, but that would not change the way he felt. Selfish. He was being completely selfish. Why couldn't he just be happy for him? Was it that hard? Disgust and anger filled him and he clenched his hands into fists, bundling them in his lap. There had been times when he had been a terrible friend (see: the first two months of his friendship with Alfred), but this brought a new meaning to it.

Pushing away from other he stood, wiping at his eyes as he muttered an incoherent apology. Legs wobbling beneath him, sniffling, dabbing at his runny nose, he looked about the aisle with a blurry line of vision; a headache was already settling in. Just great.

A noise of protest left Gilbert at this, but Matthew paid it no heed and instead went back to the trolley, picking up cans and setting them down on the shelf with a little more aggression than what he intended. The sound of tin hitting metal was jarring; he winced and then placed the next few down with a little more grace and a lot less hostility than before.

Moving to stand, Beilschmidt came over beside him and took the Canadian's elbow. "You're not mad at me, are you?" he asked lowly.

An indignant squawk left Matthew, as well as a choked sort of noise. "Jesus Christ, of course I'm not," he groaned. "I'm mad at _myself_, not you, Gil. How can I be mad at you for doing what you've wanted to do since forever?"

Gilbert didn't have an answer for him; he lowered his eyes, turned his face away and gave a shrug. Then he frowned. "Why are you mad at yourself? That makes just as little sense, man."

Biting his lip, he ran his hands through his hair and tugged at the ends. "Because of the fact that, even though I know you're doing what you want to do," he muttered, "I would love to make you stay and I was even considering it for a few minutes; but that would make me a shit friend."

The laughter that followed this surprised him, and then angered him. He glared at the shorter man. "What?"

"Sometimes you are so fuckin' blind, Birdie," he sighed, shaking his head. "Half the time you can't see past the end of your goddamn nose when it comes to the things that matter, you know that? And you've always been like it, too. For as long as I can remember, you've always been like that."

Matthew made a face.

Laughing again, he tousled the Canadian's hair and sighed. "Dude, it's perfectly normal for you to feel like that," he said. "And I remember, when I went to Penn State while you were still in high school, you basically went through the exact same thing. You told me you were happy for me and all that because it was what I wanted to do - even though it really wasn't fuck that noise - but you wanted to make me stay. And you ended up hating yourself for a good month because you thought you were being a prick. Does that sound right?"

Flushing, he just muttered some nonsense and went back to shoving cans on the shelves while mumbling all the while. Okay, so he was right.

"And I know if you were leaving to move to the other side of the country or back to Canada I would feel the same way," Gilbert said in a quiet voice, not looking at Matthew but at the shelves. His lips were pressed tightly together to the point that they were blanched of colour. "Hell, just thinkin' about it makes me feel sick."

"Well, at least I have no reason to leave New York anytime soon," he hummed with a single-shoulder shrug. "Although I can't wait until the day I can just say fuck it and leave the place."

Gilbert gave him a light pat on the shoulder before returning to sit on the floor, going back through outdates and tossing the bad products over his shoulder into a shopping cart behind him. A smirk settled on Matthew's face; just as careful with his work as ever. The prudent bastard.

And then, when he realized he was going to miss even something as stupid and mundane as this, he felt tears well up in his eyes again and a spot of pain bloom in his chest and throat. Stealing a furtive glance in the other man's direction, he was relieved to find he was actually focused on his task. He took this as the opportunity to wipe the wetness from his eyes. Just because Gil had told him it was normal to feel like this - wanting to tie the man to a chair in order to force him to stay - it didn't mean he still didn't feel awful for it.

Suddenly, he froze. "Gil… if Roderich is going to be moving to L.A with _you_," he said slowly, "who's going to be replacing him as store manager."

An unreadable look flared to life in pale blue optics. He was given a feeble smile. "Well, um, I didn't really want to bring that part up just yet…"

So it was going to be worse than he had initially thought; leave it to him to hide the whole truth. Eyes narrowing into slits, Matthew practically hissed at his friend. "You know, don't you? You _know _who's replacing him, Gilbert," he growled, slamming a can down on the shelf. The German-American flinched. "Who. Is. Replacing. _Him_."

Gilbert muttered something before quickly returning to work. A startled yelp left him when a can of beef stew whizzed past the back of his head.

"_Beilschmidt._"

A warning.

"There's a good chance Sadiq is replacing him."

A disquieting moment fell upon then - the sort of quiet his friends knew and understood well enough to take as a bad sign. Depending on the magnitude of his silence, they could derive the depth of the anger they could possibly be dealing with by the end of it. The Canadian's face was a mask of eternal calm, and in fact from the look he wore his mood seemed to be meliorating, but when he spoke he was positively irate. Saying murder was going to be his intent was border lining an understatement.

"_You brought this down upon us._"

Recoiling, he balked and pulled away with his hands held up in a gesture of surrender (a poorly thought out - or not thought out at all - idea on the man's behalf) and he shook his head, white-blonde fringe flopping against his forehead. "I don't think so, Birdie," he said smoothly, "I didn't bring shit down on anyone. He just so happens to have a business degree and he completed the manager program, so it's an interior promotion. I didn't have anything to do with this shit."

It was a bold-faced lie unlike any other one he had heard before, and Matthew knew that his ex-boyfriend knew it just as well as he did. This had just become open ground for a war. Whether or not there would be armies brought in, sporting full battle regalia, would be left to their discretion later on in the campaign. But for now this would just be a small skirmish and there was going to be a big red smear in the middle of aisle five.

A thick, heavy silence fell, and this happened to be the perfect time for Mathias to return so he could latch onto Matthew's mid-section to physically keep him from lunging at the man and bashing his head in with a can of stew.

(That might have made a little bit of a mess and there was no maintenance in to clean up the big red smear that could have been a reality were it not for the Dane. That might've been a good thing.)

When he could feel himself calming down (and what felt like a minor internal rupturing of his organs thanks to the vice grip Mathias had on him), he slapped the Dane's hands away, spluttering and grumbling whilst shooting him a scathing look. The taller man cowed away, ducking his head and putting his hands up as though he were surrendering. Perhaps the smartest move he had made all night.

"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me," he said in an arctic voice, "I shall be on the other side of the fucking store, doing absolutely nothing other than rearranging the produce displays into vulgar words."

"But Birdie," Gilbert whined - still maintaining a safe distance because he knew better - with outstretched hands, "you can't leave me with that freak! I can't work with him!" There was a noise of objection from Mathias but it was quickly silenced when the German-American gave him a smack to the gut.

Matthew threw his arms wide, a bright smile on his face despite how blotchy his skin still was. "Look at all the fucks I give! _Look _at all of them! _BASK IN THEIR GLORY YOU BITCH._"

"That's … not a lot of fucks," Mathias commented. "You're doomed."

Wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue, there was a resigned look on his face. "Doomed is putting it nicely.

Matthew cackled, taking his coffee and cinnamon bun from the Dane before leaving the two men. Sipping the steaming beverage, sniffing the heady fragrance and letting out a small noise of contentment, he knew his happiness was only a momentary one and would be painfully short lived. It was to be one of those brief creature comforts that he lived for that never stuck around for nearly a quarter as long as what they should. If he could have his way, he would keep those several warm objects around him for the rest of his life instead of encountering them only every once in a while. But then, in doing so, wouldn't the novelty wear off? Wouldn't it be less comforting if he were surrounded by it all the time? There was nothing worse than that ever-warm, lingering presence that suddenly chose to linger no longer. Instead, it left an empty sort of void in the cavity of one's chest that could take from mere hours to years to fill. He was loathe of giving up that feeling, and as long as he had at least one thing he could hold onto without fear of coldness, he knew he would be able to function at least on a bottom-trawling, scum-sucking level.

Being the algae at the bottom of the ocean - even the crunchy, brittle stuff ignored by even the hungriest fish there - was better than being nothing at all.

Anyway, he knew that if he were to stay with the other two, he would probably break down in tears more than once - a given, considering as he was by himself he took the opportunity to do so several times, fist stuffed into his mouth to muffle any noise he made, body shaking until he thought he was going to be sick.

He stayed in the produce department until seven am rolled around, unloading pallets of fresh produce that was supposed to be done by the night crew, straightening up displays whether they were a mess or not, rearranging the colours to meet his own tastes; it was the produce night crew's fault for not showing up for their shift at all, and hey - he was being a fantastic employee, doing the work for a department that wasn't even his to begin with! In all actuality, they should have been _thanking _him for the extra help when they started to show up.

To say the department was in a state of disarray was a mite of an understatement as well; things were not where they were supposed to be, the set-ups were a mess. Matthew scrunched up his nose at the site of it.

The inherent laziness of the human race would never cease in amazing him. Was it really that taxing to put back a piece of fruit they found on the stall _behind them _instead of the one across from it, where it clearly did not belong? _Was _it?

Matthew hated people the more he worked; a sad but very accurate revelation.

Seated on the floor and finishing off his cinnamon bun, legs stretched out across the tiles and his back against a stand-up cooler filled with fresh, leafy-green produce, Matthew kept his head on the cool metal. Everything he had set out to do had been finished, and there was a tiny sense of lingering pride. Early morning sunlight was pouring in through the storefront windows, leaving pools of bright sunlight on the pale tiling. Shadows, long and tall, were cast by the small displays by the front doors, marring the effect of the building-warming light. Maybe he would walk home this morning; it was a beautiful day, and sure it would be almost a two hour walk given he would take his dead sweet time in order to enjoy it, so there was no need to waste it on a quick car ride.

As noble as the thought was, it immediately vanished when Gilbert dropped down to sit next to him, head flopping on his shoulder as the pale-skinned man yawned, eyes fluttering. "We c'n go now," he murmured, rubbing a grimy hand down over his face.

Up until now Matthew hadn't realized just how tired it was, but now it hit him and he felt weary right down to his bones. A whiney yawn left him. _Fuck walking, _he decided. _I wanna get home as soon as possible to go to sleep._

Glancing down at him, he hummed. "You guys finished everything up?"

A nod. "Yep," he said. "When we went out back to check what was left, there was maybe two more trolleys. We finished those up, threw out the boxes and filed the outdates; so now the guys in today just have to wait for the trucks to come in." He paused mid-sentence to let out another yawn, curling in to Matthew's warm body, muttering tiredly. The Canadian shook his head with a quiet laugh. "Mathias left about ten minutes ago. Y'wanna go before the cashiers come in for the day and manage to rope you into a four or five hour shift?"

Another cash shift after an eight hour overnight he had done on two hours sleep. Williams considered this and then swiftly stood, causing the other to fall over onto his side, face-planting into the floor. He grimaced; Gilbert cursed.

_Not fucking likely._

Offering the man his hand with a small smile, he helped him up and dusted some dirt from his nearly white hair, laughing at the expression directed towards him. Somebody wasn't very pleased. Gilbert muttered something vile, rolling his eyes and flapping his hands before giving the younger man a swat across the back of his head. His laughter grew and the other cracked a wry smile.

This was what he was going to miss. Joking around, talking seriously. From one end of the spectrum to the other - he was going to miss all of it, and dearly so.

Tears welled back up in his eyes and he looked down to the floor. Smile slipping from his face, his shoulders slumped and he exhaled lowly. He willed himself not to cry. This week was going to be hell on earth. "C'mon," he said with a tug at the older man's shirt sleeve. Beilschmidt gave him a despondent look, unable to let their eyes meet. "I want to sleep for the rest of the day now."

They walked side-by-side, hands tucked into back pockets and both wearing similar looks of exhaustion. Matthew let his forehead come to rest upon Gil's shoulder as they walked, trusting the man to keep him from falling down a manhole or something.

Then again, because he was a sick fucker with an even sicker sense of humour, he would probably let him fall down a manhole with absolutely no problem.

And tired he must have been; he didn't even completely remember getting into the car, and he most certainly could not recall the drive from Brooklyn to Manhattan. It was just one long stretch of road with the occasional stop-and-go as they came across pockets of traffic. He could smell the exhaust from other cars even with the windows rolled up. Sounds, feelings and smells he could remember, but if they had said anything? That he could not recall; for all he knew, they mightn't have said a single word from Point A to Point B or they might have talked about everything under the sun. He didn't know.

Not until, when Matthew moved to get out of the car and Gilbert stopped him, latching onto his wrist and pulling him back into a tight embrace that the Canadian practically melted in to. He stayed there, arms wrapped tightly around broad shoulders and he shut his eyes. Maybe he could stay and sleep here; it wouldn't be the first time he had slept in the backseat of Gilbert's '67 Mustang (while it could be said that it would be one of the few times the sleeping in the backseat of the old car was innocent in any meaning of the word). Fingers ran through his hair and he pressed their foreheads together, iceberg bottom blue eyes locking with his own. A tiny smirk tweaked his lips upward in one corner.

"Are you working tomorrow?" he asked.

"No," Mattie said, moving to rest his head on his shoulder; it was more comfortable there. Fingers laced at the nape of his neck, toying with strands of hair. He shivered. "I'm off for the next three days, actually."

"Which works out perfectly," crowed Gil, suddenly looking gleeful. "What about therapy? Do you have a session during those three days?"

Did he have to see McKnight in the next three days? Wasn't that a damn good question. Pursing his lips, he slowly shook his head. "No, no I don't think I do," he said slowly. "My … yeah! My next sit-down with McKnight is next Friday." Two days after he was due to appear in court. A fitting time to go see the psychiatrist.

"I hope you don't mind me kidnapping you to take you along with me when I go to Pennsylvania for a few days. It will be fantastic and there shall be slightly illegal adventures and potentially sexy things. Do you accept this proposition?"

Matthew laughed, and then nodded. "Pennsylvania it is," he said with a stretch. "Although, from the way you worded that, it sounded like you were trying to solicit me for cheap sex."

"… I'd have no problem with that." Gilbert shot him a sly look, expression licentious.

Red-faced, the Canadian smacked him. "Roderich would murder you, first off. Secondly, Alfred would bring you back from the dead, castrate you and then kill you again. So, is it really worth it?"

"_Anything_ is worth a night of cheap sex when it's with an excellent lay."

This would probably be a good time to stop talking to him and go to bed out of it.

Laughing and telling him to go jerk off and get it over with, Matthew got out of the car and arched his back into a stretch. Gilbert's low cackles followed him out. When he shut the door the man started the car again, pulling away from the curb and pressing down on the horn before taking off down the fairly empty street. Precious few people wandered about, just those that had to be to work good and early. Then again, most people had to be to work between eight and nine o'clock, so wouldn't this be a normal time to leave for work if one wanted to avoid traffic in the city?

People were something he just needed to stop trying to understand because in the end it did him absolutely no good, especially in terms of his so-called mental stability.

_Don't think too much, Matthew, _a little voice at the back of his mind whispered in a steely voice that sent shivers through him. _You could end up hurting yourself if you look too deeply into things. _

Pondering this for the briefest moment in time, he wondered if he had best see McKnight about going on a stronger dosage of Cymbalta; at least then his mind wouldn't be filled with a cacophony of irrational thoughts. Although the mess could be coming from the distinct lack of sleep he was running on. It was sort of hard to tell.

As the car turned off of the side street and pulled onto the main road, the smile slipped from Matthew's face and his shoulders drooped. He could feel his throat closing over and burning, along with the dull ache in his chest. Blinking rapidly, he rubbed his palms forcefully across his eyes and bit down on the inside of his mouth until the tears forming turned into ones of pain more so than grief.

(Maybe he needed more than a stronger dose of Cymbalta; he wished he could be perfectly numb for a while.)

Perfect numbness came in the form of sleep - a deep sort of unconsciousness in which he did not dream, nor did he move in his bed - once he had struggled with the door knob for a good ten minutes, gave in like the sore loser he was and went through the door level with the street, tromping through Greg and Jade's home (ears burning at the laughter that followed him). It turned out that he had been, in his semi-asleep state of mind, using the wrong key the entire time.

The numbers on the clock beside him read a little bit after two o'clock in the afternoon and he stared at it blankly. Six hours sleep did not cut it; that was half of what he wanted.

But what had woken him up in the first place was his stomach, grumbling treasonously, demanding quite angrily to be fed. With that in mind (but with no worries of an uprising and usurping of any sort), he dragged himself out of the comfortable confines of his bed with some contempt. Maybe he still had that box of Frosted Flakes in the cupboard? Or it would be stale by now?

Well, fuck that; he was hungry and anything was bound to taste good at that point.

Moving sluggishly, it took longer than he would have thought possible to get to the kitchen. Each step felt tiny and as though he was walking a country mile and not the fifteen feet between his bedroom and the kitchen cupboard. His eyes itched and his lashes were clumped together, making the itching worse; their dampness from earlier had practically caused them to weld together. He rubbed at them, sniffling a little as the melancholy made itself known again and, as it did, his appetite diminished.

_Buck up, _he told himself grimly. Appetite or not, happiness or not, he still needed to eat even though his innards felt like they were after coiling into one big heathen of a knot. Maybe Gilbert shouldn't have said anything to him, should have just got up and left without a word said, but that would probably leave him in a place that was far worse than this one.

Once he found the elusive box of Frosted Flakes and grabbed his pills and the carton of apple juice with a straw, he tucked the blue box under his arm and headed back to his room. No sense in dirtying up a bowl when he could eat it dry from the package; not that he had any milk, either. Grocery day wasn't until at least another two days, but if he was going to be heading to Pennsylvania for a few days, he might as well put off buying groceries for at least another five or six.

Reacquainting himself with the warm sheets and quilt on his bed, he bundle down and nuzzled in close to the pillow, eyes slipping shut again for a brief moment before he reopened them and scooted towards the edge of the bed. He had placed the food and drink on the floor within an easy reach. There would be no crumbs in his bed if he had any say in the matter. A glance to the cell phone on his bedside table showed that he had no texts or missed calls and he gave a sigh of relief; he really didn't want to talk to anyone - especially not now. And it didn't matter who they were or just how important they thought they were to him. He didn't want anything to do with anyone. Not right now because for now he wanted to (well, he didn't quite want to, but it was bound to happen) wallow and just exist at the barest meaning of the word.

Matthew shovelled a handful of cereal into his mouth, crunching away tiredly, eyes slipping shut again. There was absolutely no noise in his apartment but there was static in his ears, like a radio blaring white noise had turned itself on in his head. And either the cereal was stale, or his taste buds had died en masse. What he was eating tasted like paste and made him mouth taste sour. Despite this he continued to eat them, popping a pill at one point and occasionally slipping the straw into the container of apple juice and sipping from it, cheek still pressed into the pillow.

He shut the flaps on the box. Stomach feeling as though it had been filled with lead in place of food, he curled in on himself, pulling the blankets back up over his shoulders and shutting his eyes once more as his internal clock decided it was time to hibernate once more.

Sleeping kept his mind off things which was why it was his favourite thing to do.

What woke him up again - this time around six in the evening - was the phone in his apartment ringing. Not his cell phone, but the landline he shared with Jade and Greg but never used. He jolted into awareness, pulse pounding and a cold sweat drenching his skin; gasping for air he placed a hand over his chest as if that would be enough to settle his racing heart.

The shrill ringing sound shattered the quiet of his home and he lay there, rubbing his face and blinking sluggishly. He glanced to his cell phone - no messages. Maybe Alfred had some sort of Spidey sense that told him when he needed to fuck off and when he could come around. He scoffed at the reality of the idea; the lawyer had told him he was going to be spending the next day or so working in his office on some cases, so they probably wouldn't be able to talk all that much, if at all.

Preparing to roll over and face the other side to go back to sleep for the rest of the night - he still felt a little woozy, his mouth sour-tasting and his stomach queasy - he was stopped by the ringing of his own phone. A curse left him and he slammed the pillow down over his head in hopes of ignoring it.

Unlike the little fantasy he had for himself where the phone stopped ringing and he could live happily ever after through the way of going back to sleep, that was not the case. It just kept ringing and ringing and ringing and _fucking ringing. _

With a snarled curse, he sat bolt upright, grabbing the phone and sliding it open. "_**What**__._"

"_Oh, Jesus. Aren't you a friendly little fucker. Who shit in your Corn Flakes?" _It was Greg; Matthew groaned.

"Actually," he said, "I had Frosted Flakes and they were stale. So, anyway, what's up?"

"_Ah, that explains everything. Do carry on then. And the phone is for you - that's all._"

Confused, he couldn't even think of whom it could be that was calling him. Thanking his landlord for passing on the message, he tossed his cell down onto the bed and, once more, begrudgingly crawled out from his warm little prison cell. This time he thought ahead and yanked the comforter off of his bed and wrapped it around his body like a shawl, the tail end of the thick blanket trailing behind him like a train.

It took him a good few minutes to locate the cordless phone (and in the meantime, he started to worry that his caller might have hung up on him in a fit of impatience), the device in the end located beneath a pile of old newspaper he had been using to cover the floor and his table while he had been painting.

Pressing the talk button and sliding it between his chin and shoulder, he hummed. "Hello?"

"_Is this Matthew Williams?_"

Freezing upon hearing the voice, his mouth went dry.

"Yes it is. Who … who's calling?"

Soft laughter from the other end; the caller sounded immensely relieved - like a weight had been taken off of his shoulders. "_Do you have any idea how hard of a person you are to find? I mean, it's quite ridiculous. I have spent the better part of the past four years trying to find you, and I only did now by fluke,_" the caller said, voice deep and his chuckles even deeper. "_You need to learn how to find one place, and then stay there for at least a year or two - none of this roaming around nonsense; you're not a vagabond, for the love of God._"

Matthew licked his lips, feeling light-headed. When he spoke, it was in a voice that did not belong to him:

"F-_Francis?_"

* * *

Hey guys hope you liked the chapter, and thank you so much for all the reviews and faves and just aaaaaaa! Lmao reading all of your responses makes me way too happy, haha. ;w; Also, this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but there wasn't all that much that needed to happen this time around. Other than.

Y'know.

"F-_Francis?_"

Tee-hee.

（´∀｀）


	31. Chapter 31

**CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE.**

He had been lying awake in bed for nearly an hour but had yet to move as it was still only a little after six thirty in the morning. One reason being the bed was too warm and his wife's body too comfortable to pull away from. That, and she would probably bitch and whine and then drag him back into bed an keep him there as a personified blanket until almost eight am. After that the panicked scramble to get showered, dressed for court and go over to Matthew's to pick him up would ensue in half an hour and he would be angry with himself for allowing his wife to cajole him into going back to sleep.

The other reason was simply because of the fact that it was too early to even be alive yet. The _sun_ wasn't even up yet.

Chris just yawned and stared at the ceiling, the sensitive skin beneath his eyes burning.

There was, really, no need to get up just yet. It was only six thirty (seven) after all, and he had told Williams he would be there by around eight o'clock…

Rolling over onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow, the lawyer said fuck it and shut his eyes again, exhaling heavily. But he wouldn't go back to sleep because that wouldn't end well. And there was a slight queasiness in his gut that was keeping him doing so; today was the day Matthew was going to be testifying against Pavel in court. It was an easy enough procedure - get up on the stand, answer a barrage of questions, go for a recess, come back and face down the defending lawyer and his client and try to defend himself (to a certain extent) against that man and then make his closing statement that so-and-so was the one who attacked him entirely unprovoked yada yada yada and then go the fuck home out of it.

Simple enough. Matthew knew what was expected of him, and the three of them (Jones had said there was no way he was letting his boyfriend go in there unprepared without at least some advice and work from him) had put together a perfect testimony. They had worked it from every possible angle, grilled him with whatever questions or rebuttals either of the men could come up with, and the Canadian managed to come back at each and every one of their fires with one of his own or something they wouldn't be able to back track from. It was the defence they needed to prepare him for, not the actual testimony.

When Matthew managed to talk Alfred (or more like snap and hiss him) into a corner after one particularly brutal question - what sort of ties did he have with a wanted and quite notorious drug dealer to warrant such a beating? Was he himself an addict? Was there more to this than what he was letting the jury know? - they deemed the young man ready for the stand. Chris looked at it as he knew what he was going in there for; he knew what it was he had to tell them and explain; he understood what was too much detail and what wasn't enough. And Alfred agreed, saying with a dry chuckle that the guy could probably do the goddamn testimony in his sleep at this point.

(Later on in the week when they had conferred, Chris wasn't entirely surprised to learn that the only thing the American had to complain about was his boyfriend muttering in his sleep, and constantly moving about restless, sometimes not even sleeping.)

The only downside to the whole process was, apparently, a bad case of nerves was contagious.

Matthew knew he was ready - he had even told the two men that, if he were to have been told at any give moment to go in there and state under oath what had happened, he would be able to. But just because he was prepared it did not mean he wasn't nervous.

Petrified was more like it.

And now it was as if Matthew's nervousness had been rubbing off on him (and off of Jones, as well, unless he was experiencing another streak of cravings - poor bastard still lingering on the edge of the forest and not quite into the clear). Chris found it harder to get to sleep at night as he would be awake for a few hours longer, going over the full details of the case - every single goddamn intricacy - in his head until he thought his brain was going to combust. Every what-if that could end up for them; every what-if for Alfred, considering this was the fucker's former drug dealer and he knew damn well that the DA wanted to see the bastard rot in a jail cell. And then there was every what-if that pertained to his career and any potential fuck-up could hinder him getting a shot at the so-called dream job of his…

Chris cursed to himself, lips pressed firmly together as the vulgarities just looped around his head. He was going batty. This sort of thing had never bothered him before; no case had ever kept him up at night, had fucked up his eating habits or had killed his sex drive. Not even that nasty case with the rapist from Jersey he had dealt with that could have completely ruined his reputation as a running candidate for the Brooklyn District Attorney seat if he didn't land the sadist-with-a-dead-cheerleader-kink in jail for at least twenty years before he was allotted a chance at probation.

Hell, in retrospect, he slept _better_ when he knew he had a case to be dealing with.

Rolling back onto his backside once more and staring at the ever-so-fascinating ceiling, DePaulo sighed heavily. This was getting out of hand. Maybe it was just Williams' testimony he was fretting over and that was just setting off a chain reaction, leading him into a vicious cycle of strained nerves. Once the damn thing was done and over with, the anxiety would disintegrate like the Wicked Witch of the West did when Dorothy decided to launch a bucket of water at her. More than likely it would.

Call him an optimist, but there were times when he liked to hope that there was something he could look forward to.

'_Enough of this horseshit,_' he decided as he sat up and massaged the back of his neck, feeling grim and bitter and not optimistic like he usually aimed for. It wasn't even seven on the dot yet - half an hour before his planned rising time - but he couldn't lie there anymore. His head was riddled with too many thoughts, some of them distorted and scattered helter-skelter. Thinking about it was going to drive him insane. He needed to _stop._

As he slung his legs over the side of the bed, blindly grabbing for the tattered black Harvard sweater at the foot, two arms wrapped around his waist and he gave a groan.

"What do you think you're doing?" came the mutter from hip-level.

He glanced downwards. Eyeing his still half-asleep wife he gave a small smile. "I'm getting up and getting ready for work," he said, working on getting her to let go of him. Instead her grip tightened and he laughed.

"It's too _early,_" whined Vanessa, smacking him on the thigh with a clenched fist. "There's still another half an hour before you usually get up."

Chris sighed before lightly pinching at her ribs, earning a startled squeal but also effectively releasing himself from the woman's grip (there were times when a bull dog paled in comparison). "I know, I know," he said as he stood. Turning a little to look down at her, he smiled a little. She had flopped on her back and was scowling up at him, short curly red hair a complete and utter mess. He smirked. "You look like one of those Troll dolls."

Chris meet the pillow, pillow meet Chris.

And thus was established a wonderful but very short lived and somewhat painful relationship.

Oh the joys of married life he told himself as he left their room, pinching at the bridge of his nose where it felt like he had been punched and not hit with a feathery pillow. Didn't something like this mildly constitute as a part of spousal abuse? Sort of, kind of, maybe?

When he emerged from the bathroom some twenty minutes later, it still wasn't even seven thirty yet. This was the problem with being able to shower and shave in under fifteen minutes. While it was a bonus if he was running late, it was also along the lines of a minor curse if he was well ahead of schedule, like now. He could have spent another five or ten minutes just soaking in the shower and doing absolutely nothing, just enjoying the therapeutic feeling of the pulsating spray. Did he? Nope.

A small groan left him as he headed back into the bedroom. Vanessa was still in the same spot he had left her, draped over his pillow. She watched him with a bored expression before giving a grin. A tiny, fond sort of smile crossed his face for a brief moment before he opened the closet in search of a tie. Or, maybe he would go without a tie - dare to be different and all that jazz. Maybe he could wear a bow tie. One with little green polka dots. Start a fashion revolution in the court room-

What the fuck was he even thinking? Chris hauled a black silk tie out of a box.

'_I must be spending too much time around Jeff,_' he thought as he slung the silk around the collar of his white dress shirt. '_It's really starting to show now._'

"C'mere, let me fix your tie for you, darling."

_Darling. _He tried not to laugh. Turning a little with a noise of acknowledgement, Chris snorted before going to stand at the side of the bed. Vanessa rose up to kneel on the edge, humming pleasantly as she easily set his tie properly. No matter how often he wore one, he couldn't tie a tie to save his life. No matter how many times she had shown him, he still couldn't remember how to set it and what ways to loop the material. A lost cause. Smoothing it out, she gave it a final tug and then grinned.

"There," said the woman brightly, "now you're allowed to go out and face the world. You look presentable."

"Excuse me?" asked Chris gruffly, giving her a light kiss on the cheek. "I didn't look good enough to begin with or something?"

Vanessa scrunched her nose and then gave him a noncommittal shrug, expression brazen. "I never said _that._"

"And in saying _that, _that means you implied it," he retorted as he tweaked her nose, moving away from the bed and grabbing up one of the folders from the desk by the window covered in books and other papers. While he had his own office, sometimes his papers made their way into their bedroom and he tended to sit up in bed going through files Alfred had given him (there was no denying that the bastard knew what he was doing, so he had might as well pay attention to his methods to see if he could learn something from him).

He took the folder with him into the kitchen, dropping the beige cardboard paper holder down on top of the counter. Some sheets slid out from the file but he ignored those in favour of starting up the coffee brewer he had prepared to night before. Some Irish Cream coffee grains and a little bit of salt sprinkled in through it to get rid of the bitterness, water filled in the container that was just enough for two or three cups; he would only have one, but sometimes Vanessa would either have two or should would put some in a thermos and bring it with her to work. The woman was grossly addicted to the beverage.

Blindly pressing the button on the side of the maker while his other hand opened up a cupboard to grab a mug, he peered at one of the pieces of information Alfred had given him; this being about Pavel's defence lawyer. He hadn't gotten this far in his reading yet, and this was the only bit he had left. A grim look crossed his face, slowly followed by the curvature of a cold smile. Jones was truly pulling out all the stops for him in this trial.

While the man never did his work anywhere near below par and he while he was adamant about doing it right the first time around (with the exception of that little mistrial he himself had instigated that time back last November), it wasn't very often he looked into what sort of defence he would be working against.

Then again, Chris knew that considering the fact that this was his former dealer up on trial, he knew what they would be dealing with. A man with money that could buy the best defence America had to offer. Looking at the piece of paper - which had a little picture attached to it and everything, he noted with dry amusement - he rubbed at his chin. This was neither a name nor a face he was familiar with; the accused was, based on this (and the fact that the man's working fee was in a five-digit area), damn good and rich and it was easy to tell the guy was anticipating a lengthy sentence.

Enter an excellent defence attorney.

Chris paused, giving it thought; he was up on two murder charges, two attempted murder charges (including Matthew's), numerous charges involving assault causing bodily harm, carrying prohibited, concealed and unregistered weapons on his person, fraud, possession of drugs for trafficking, blackmail, extortion, being an illegal immigrant, grand theft auto - just to name a few.

He swallowed thickly, setting down the paper and massaging his temples. The man was up for something bordering on sixty charges. This was insane. He had never taken on a case involving one man with that many charges - they hadn't even gotten to his accomplices, which would be several different hearings; they probably wouldn't even go through an actual court session for those guys, given they were simply up on trafficking, possession and theft. Just thugs hired by a man that knew a little too well what it was that he was doing.

So, knowing this, he had gotten himself probably one of the best damn lawyers the United States of America had to offer. A curse left the American and he ran a hand through his hair. Jones had damn well done his research here; the lawyer being employed by Pavel had been in the business for almost thirty years now - a thought that made his stomach drop - and, in that time period, he had only ever lost five cases against the seventy-odd he had in his repertoire, all of those lost cases being within the first seven years of his career.

"Oh my God what am I doing to myself?" he weakly asked himself. "What am I fucking doing to myself?"

Feeling himself pale as he skimmed down through the list, he ran a hand down over his face and let it sit over his mouth as he read whom he had defended in court. Among the plain old criminals and innocent men he had represented in court, he had also been there for a war criminal and several Wall Street Business men that had been placed on the chopping block during the 2008 Recession.

All of these men managed to get out unscathed.

The paper fluttered from his fingers as his stomach dropped.

Even though it would be hard to defend a man up on murder charges (along with the rest of The Book being thrown at him), this man had defended a goddamn fucking _war criminal. _And it wasn't just that, but in looking at some of his case documents (how Alfred had managed to get some of this stuff was mind-boggling, but he knew there was a good chance Allan had played an integral part in this), this man played dirty in the courtroom, especially when it came to people pleading a case against the accused. Brought up things that were irrelevant and made them matter. Most of the time they ended up working in his favour. This thought left him unsettled and even more worried than before.

If it weren't for the fact that he was doing this to save Alfred's ass - in more ways than one - he would have dropped this case faster than what the Serbs could drop bombs over Sarajevo during the disintegration of the Yugoslavian nation.

They were, in all meanings possible of the word, fucked and out of business; the most of a sentence they would be able to get for the guy would be five years on more than likely manslaughter instead of murder if the man was as good as what this paper made him out to be.

"Fuck," he breathed, rubbing at his neck. He could feel the muscles there were knotted and a headache was already brewing.

What a fantastic day this was going to turn out to be.

Hands, thin and delicate, upon his shoulders all of a sudden caused him to jump and let out a startled grunt. Lips then pressed to his neck and he immediately relaxed, hanging his head with embarrassment. Running a hand through his hair he rested forward against the counter, head down on the granite, ignoring the bubbling sounds being made by the coffee maker in favour of listening to the static in his own ears.

The hands on his shoulders left but were replaced by palms that started to dig in along the blades and the base of his neck. It felt incredible and he exhaled slowly through his nose. "You're tense," she said lightly. "What's wrong?"

"This case is going to do me in," he muttered. "Well, either me or my career. I don't know which one, yet, or maybe it'll be both. But I'm soundly fucked, Nessie."

Vanessa scoffed, but whether it was at the teasing little nickname he used on occasion or his self-pitying lamenting he was unsure. More than likely it was both. "You're full of it," she said. "And anyway, wouldn't you just be able to stack the jury in your favour?"

Chris gave his wife, a pharmacist by trade, a sidelong look before shaking his head as he straightened up. "Yeah, sure I could do that. But then it's a rigged trial, completely unfair, and if I got found out for that, I'd be penalized, as would the jurisdiction and the judge handling the case for allowing it to happen."

"And a murderer getting away with murder is fair, is it?" she asked lightly, walking away from him and grabbing the empty mug on the counter. Picking up the coffee pot she poured some of the brew into the black mug, steam rising and twisting in languid tendrils. "So, while yes it's important to have a fair trial and all that, but isn't it also important to take a man out of the city that's after doing awful things to people? And to people we know, at that?" She set down the milk and sugar, and looked at Chris, gray eyes sharp. "So is it _really _unfair to stack a jury against him, just to be on the safe side? Is it really that wrong when you know, when the jury knows, when his lawyer knows, and the general public knows that he _is_ guilty of the crimes he's being accused of?" She sipped his coffee, looked thoughtful and then smiled as she handed it to her stunned-into-silence husband. "So which is wrong and which is right?"

For a moment he stared at his wife, expression closed but tense lines running across his forehead as he scrunched his eyebrows. Then he groaned. "It's too early in the morning to be testing my morals," the lawyer groused, earning delighted laughter and a kiss on the cheek. "But no, you're right about that. A stacked jury could do little harm in this instance, and fuck it's been done before - I know Alfred's done it, but only once, and when he told me about it he was goddamn humiliated to admit to that sort of judicial corruption - but it's still to big of a risk."

Watching him with her head cocked to the side, messy red hair stuck off in a pony's tail and a hand propping her cheek up, she blinked slowly as she digested what he said. Then she nodded. "You're afraid you're going to screw up, aren't you?"

Chris just tapped his nose before sipping his coffee, shutting his eyes. "So much is riding on this," he murmured, massaging his eyes. "This is my biggest case; State told me that if I get a good verdict and land him at least ten years without probation, then I'll be guaranteed a chance at district. I cannot afford to mess up on this one; too much is riding on it. And Jones is going to hate me for the rest of my life if I fuck up on this one, my chance at being DA for Brooklyn will be thrown completely out the window, and just oh my God sweetheart, if you love me, _you will shoot me to put me out of my misery_."

"Sadly, I do love you, but not enough to risk murder charges for myself," she quipped brightly as she stretched lazily, grinning. She looked like a teenager with the grin on her face; the brightness in her eyes and the freckles splattered along her cheeks. Chris gave a tiny smile, nothing more than a ghost of one, before ducking his head.

Fingers grazed along his neck. "It's almost eight," said Vanessa softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Take the rest of your coffee in a travel mug; you need to go get Matthew."

Glancing at the clock on the stove, Chris just smirked.

Of course time would pass quickly when he least wanted it to.

Of _course_ it would go ahead and do that.

Upon arriving at Matthew's apartment, a breakfast sandwich from McDonald's in one hand and his coffee in the other, he didn't quite expect to see him, the wreck of a human that he was, pile into his car looking like hell had tried to stuff him into its lunchbox and bring him along for a snack.

Despite the suit he wore and his clean hair, he looked like complete and utter shit. He couldn't have slept; his skin was ashen, eyes bloodshot and there were bags upon bags beneath them that could probably be used for groceries if one so desired. Williams didn't even seem to be aware of his surroundings, just slumping down in his seat and rubbing at his temple as he stared with a vapid look at the dashboard. He had never seen the Canadian look this terrible before.

Before pulling away from the curb Chris took out his Blackberry, responding to a few texts, all the while glancing surreptitiously over to Matthew. He just sat there, perfectly listless, as if he were trying to stop existing - trying to just fade into the material of the passenger seat. Acting like a complete non-entity.

Chris rubbed his neck awkwardly, looking away as he set his phone down in his lap. While he would like to consider himself the guy's friend - or at least a concerned acquaintance - he didn't actually know what to say. Sure, he knew what he wanted to but he didn't entirely know how to articulate it to him. Opting for bluntness over petty arguing with himself, DePaulo sighed.

"You … kind of look like shit," he said. "Is everything okay?"

A scathing, venomous look was shot in his direction and it felt as though the temperature on the inside of his SAAB plummeted by at least ten degrees. Chris recoiled a little with a low whistle, rubbing at his jaw. So _that _was what Alfred had meant by **The Look of Death in Which One Could See Their Imminent Demise**. That had actually been mildly frightening and he could feel a few years of his life just getting up and waltzing away. He wanted to shake his fist in their general direction, saying 'Not like I needed you anyway!'

There was a low, incoherent grumble. He glanced over and was given a thin-lipped, dry-as-bones smile. "Sorry," Matthew muttered. "I just … haven't slept, that's all. I'm kind of on edge."

Chris grimaced. "Have you eaten anything? Food might make you feel a bit better."

"I'll just throw it back up," was the terse reply. "I tried some cereal around six o'clock and I was sick."

"What about liquids? Can you keep those down?"

Williams seemed to be thoughtful. "Haven't tried since then, either," he finally said. As Chris drove down Broadway he looked out through the windows. He was, however, only feigning interest in their surroundings. Indigo eyes were too flat behind their glasses to be taking in anything.

"Well, how about we try pumping some coffee into you," he suggested. "Or maybe I could get you a smoothie or something with a little more substance. Then again, something like that would probably be too heavy on your stomach if you can't even keep cereal down…"

Chuckling lightly, Matthew shook his head. "I think I'll just stick with trying some coffee."

Shooting him a sharp look, he frowned. "I don't need you passing out on the stand because of hunger or low blood sugar," said Chris.

"A few hours without eating are nothing," spat the Canadian. "I've gone longer than a few measly hours without eating; I know what my body can handle and I know what it can't."

The look he received rendered the first glare he had been given completely harmless and the lawyer wondered if Matthew had sold a portion of his soul at any point of his life for that ability. It was fucking _terrifying_. Or maybe it was just some sort of art he had mastered at a young age; a prodigy in the art of giving people looks that could kill. He wasn't entirely sure, but it was a pretty good theory to go on. Saying his personality was volatile was a nice way of putting it.

Talking, he noticed, seemed to just irritate the young man seated beside him. Exhaustion was probably the instigator, but he had never seen Matthew so snippy before. Natural tongue removed it had been replaced by a dagger, both edges sharpened to ease along a verbal massacre.

(In other words: Matthew Williams was a fucking _scary_ little cretin when tired and nervous. Score a few points for Alfred for being able to handle that.)

From then on in they drove in silence, not even the radio on to break the quiet. He debated whether or not his passenger would want a coffee from Starbucks or McDonalds, but when he glanced over to him, he realized that the guy probably didn't give a flying fuck about where it came from; just as long as he was being given a steaming cup of coffee. Decision made, he would just stop at the first place he came across the sold fresh java. It ended up being McDonalds, and it was one that had a drive-thru - just a small blessing. Matthew sat with his knees drawn to his chest, eyes shut and a sick look on his face as Chris left the McDonald's drive-thru (thanking God for there being one on at least every third city block) with a freshly brewed coffee placed in the cup holder, little packets of cream and sugar placed in the other one.

Roused by the fresh-smelling coffee, Matthew blinked sluggishly as he picked up the cup and held it in both his hands, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. A smile curved one corner of his mouth upwards and he glanced over to Chris, muttering his thanks before adding in the sugar and cream, stirring it slowly. Even the lawyer inhaled deeply, a small smile crossing his face. There was nothing better than the smell of freshly made coffee, whether it came from a home brewer or a fast food chain.

Minimal traffic greeted them on their way across Manhattan to the court house. They arrived a lot sooner than what either of them wanted, passing through security with ease and with nearly twenty minutes to spare before they even needed to be in the court room. The building was cold as they walked into it, the cool air causing a shiver to go through him. Main entrance area empty, Chris found he was glad that they had gotten there so early; within another ten minutes or so the room would start to fill up with media personnel and the like. He was glad they would be able to avoid that mess (and he was also glad that this case was a closed-doors one, preventing the public and media from sitting in on the proceedings).

Slight movement at his side other than Matthew's walking caught his attention; confusion filled him when he saw the tiny smile on his face and the fact that he was _waving_ to someone he apparently knew. Glancing around the main floor, he frowned; other than the bailiffs, there was no one there that he could have known. Unless…

Looking up to the other floor, he chuckled lightly when he saw Alfred leaning over the railing of the third floor, waving down at them. Should have known; who else would Matthew know here other than his boyfriend? He wore a suit, and he looked - even from this distance it was easy to tell - somewhat tired. Chris couldn't help but wonder how late the DA had stayed up talking with Matthew in an attempt to make him feel better. When Jones saw that DePaulo was aware of his presence he gave a bit of a smirk before giving one last wave and disappearing down the hall.

Matthew's shoulders slumped a little and he looked down to the floor, hands tightening around his cup of coffee, a sigh leaving him.

"I didn't think he was going to be here for this," Chris commented quietly, removing his jacket and slinging it over his arm.

Another sigh; Matthew looked away. "I didn't think he was going to be, either," he hummed. "But then when I was on the phone with him last night he told me he would be here, but … not here at the same time. I don't really know what he means by that, but all the same, I guess."

"More than likely he'll watch the proceedings from the atrium; you can get to it from the same floor his office is on," the lawyer said. "Which makes sense; he'll be there, but you won't actually see him there."

"Comforting enough," said Williams in a dry voice; his smirk was wry and he shook his head. When he spoke again, it was in a barely-there voice: "At least he's here. That's the important thing."

How _hollow_ his voice sounded. There was no emotion behind it; normally an emotive speaker, it was unnerving to hear him talk like that. Like that little part, critical to emotion, had just perished.

Leading him into the courtroom, hands behind his back, Chris exhaled heavily as he made his way to their table, dropping his brief case down on top of it. They were the only ones in there as of right now; within another little while the members of the jury would begin to pile in as well as other court personnel. They had might as well enjoy the silence of the space while it lasted, or at least that was how he looked at it. Matthew lagged behind, peering about the hall with wide eyes and a look of interest, observing quietly.

It was the largest of three court rooms, meant for a grand jury, an audience and more than likely an important case. This was the room used specifically for murder trials, businesses, and corruption amongst various higher-ups in society. The smaller rooms were used for less serious cases; hearings that bordered along the lines of petty misdemeanours. Eight rows of sixteen seats, split down the middle to make up an aisle, were there for a potential audience, and then beyond the bar there was the jury box, off to the side. A seat for the court reporter, two tables at the front - one for the accused and his attorney, and a table for the State, the ones pressing the charges and whoever might be taking the stand. The bench was situated at the head of the room, a lower section for whoever was hearing the charges or stating their case against - also, the witness' stand. Two American flags hung suspended from the wall, framing the space where the judge would sit, and directly behind the seat was a coat of arms and some Latin slogan beneath it, educating some call-to-arms phrase which he had never taken the time to decipher; those phrases, mottos, family war cries - they were all the same in the end.

Chris dropped down onto a wooden chair, brief case on the table's surface, and he buried his face in his hands to hide a yawn. It was now that the tiredness was choosing to hit him; being awake these past three hours and now he was ready to curly up under the table and go for a nap. Unprofessional as it might be, it was also very tempting.

Sipping his coffee and sitting down beside the half-asleep lawyer, Matthew rested on the edge of the chair, back to him and looking around the court room, taking in the layout of the room and the size of it. Grandeur meant very little to either of them. Impossible as it was to try and figure out what it was he might have been thinking, it was harmless to make a guess; he was probably wondering if there was going to be an audience for this case. The answer (something the man saw reason in to be thankful for) was no. Later on in the trial, yes. But not for the first few sessions; just until they knew where their footing with this man and his lawyer was, there would be no public access to the trial, and very minimal media coverage.

Williams suddenly turned in his seat to face Chris. "Am I the only person testifying today?"

"Sort of," he said. "You'll be up on the stand for the majority of the day, but the doctor that treated you at the hospital will also be in here to state the validity of your testimony."

"He was a pretty nice doctor for, y'know, a _doctor_," said Matthew in an off-hand way as he sank back into the chair and sighed heavily, massaging the bridge of his nose as he stared at nothing in particular.

This day was going to be a long one.

And as though they were on a timer of some sorts (it was either that, or Chris damn well knew the predictability of the people he had been dealing with), members of the jury started to show up within fifteen minutes of their arrival. Some of them greeted him - outright ignoring Matthew, which (from the look on his face) was much to the young man's relief - while some of them just gave him a wary sort of sidelong look before taking their place.

Dropping down to sit beside him, Chris looked over to one of the bailiffs. He grinned and gave him a polite nod of acknowledgement. The burly man, bald and a few pants-sizes smaller than a sumo wrestler, gave him a bright grin; despite looking like a foreboding piece of humanity, he was the equivalent to a teddy bear with a heartbeat, pepper spray and Glock 19. "Morning, Jackson."

Jackson gave him a wry smile. "I'd rather be in bed," he grunted. "But all the same. Top of the morning to you. Who's the little blonde girl?"

Upon the unwanted acknowledgement Matthew's head twisted around in their direction, eyes wide behind his lenses and a scowl forming on his face. "I have a _dick_, thanks."

A bark of strangled-sounding laughter left Chris and the bailiff sat there with a shocked look on his face, jaw hanging slack. "That's, uh, that's Matthew," the American said weakly, doing his damndest to keep a straight face. "And _he _is on the stand today."

"Oh." Jackson's round cheeks were flushed and he rubbed his face. "Sorry about that, dude."

Matthew waved it off, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, okay. Shit happens; I get that a lot."

Leaning in close to the older man, DePaulo couldn't help but smirk as he spoke in a whisper that was meant to be heard. "He _does_ look kind of feminine, doesn't he?"

Head swivelling back around, Williams gave the bailiff seated beside them a look that said '_agree with him and die_'; indigo eyes were venomous and narrowed into slits - even though he had had some coffee, it had seemingly done little to wake him up and, if his suspicions were correct, he seemed to be crankier than before. Maybe it was a bad case of nerves setting in that was pushing him to the edge of snapping. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that he had just been called a girl. Ever the wise man, Jackson quickly turned away from the Canadian and gave the lawyer a weak smile. "Some weather we're getting this week, huh?" he asked in a flippant manner, stretching his arms up over his head before rubbing at his shoulder. "It's pretty good for the middle of September, right?"

"Sure it is," he replied with a low chuckle, shaking his head a little. Trust the tiny little thing beside him to frighten a man that could make almost ten of him. "But don't we always get pretty mild temperatures this time of year?" Matthew, on the other hand, just smirked perversely, settling back in his chair as he texted someone. When he was finished his gaze returned to rest on the ceiling once he had his phone slipped back into his pants pocket.

Patting him on the shoulder, Jackson stood with a grim expression after he checked the time. The moment he did that a lump formed in Chris' throat and a knot formed in his gut. _Shit. _A side door opened as Jackson approached and two other bailiffs entered the room, escorting Pavel - neither of them had noticed, but as they had been talking with the older man, the dealer's attorney had showed up and was now seated, somewhat primly, at his respective table, shuffling through an extensive pile of papers. While he looked a little bit older than the picture he had seen of him, this was most definitely the man.

Dark brown eyes narrowed as Chris took in his actions and the size of the stack of papers before him; there was no need for him to have so much information, if that was what it was. It wasn't even the first day of the trial so there was no reason for him to have anything pertinent to the day's testimony (given everything had been listed the day before and, from the look on Judge Kirkland's face as he had been reading the list of charges, the Briton had been simply flabbergasted at the extensiveness of the offences). All he needed to do was sit there, listen and take notes during the first half and then formulate questions of his own for during the second.

Suspicious as it made him, he said nothing of it and just glowered at the man before turning his eyes away.

As for Pavel, the man looked like hell. His normally well-kept black hair was stringy and greasy; his skin was waxy (or whiter than usual) and the clothing he wore was quite different from what he had been arrested in. When he had been cuffed and brought down to the lock-up the second time around, he had been in an Armani suit (albeit a rather _bloody_ Armani suit). Now, he wore a pair of ratty jeans and a simple black t-shirt. It looked like he hadn't slept or bathed in days.

Glancing over to Matthew, opening his mouth to speak, Chris stopped when he saw just how pale the Canadian's face was; it was bone white and his lips were even whiter, pressed into a thin line that rendered them pinched to the point of invisibility. He was watching Pavel - as was the man watching him, expression going from lifeless to virulent the moment he set eyes upon the blonde.

Not only was this going to be a long day, it was also going to be an _interesting _one.

Pavel took a seat beside his lawyer, the cuffs keeping his hands together in front of him remaining as the two officers conversed for a moment with Jackson before parting through the same door they had come in. The two men talked for a brief moment before falling silent. The attorney cast a look over in their direction, but then his gaze was averted as another man joined the prosecutor and the witness; a thin smile appeared on Matthew's pallid face. It was the doctor he had been assigned to when he had arrived at the hospital. The man, tall and gray-haired, gave him a thin smile of his own.

"Mr. Williams," he said in a quiet voice. "So nice to see you. How have you been?"

"I've been doing pretty well, thanks for asking," replied the artist. "Yourself?"

The doctor, Phillipe Aucoin, sat down beside them, placing his own folder of paper down before them. "I have been good as well. I see your scar has healed over quite nicely. What about the back of your head?"

Fingers going to his throat, Matthew's smile vanished. "I guess I should consider myself lucky for being a quick healer," he said with a cold-sounding laugh. "The back of my head is doing pretty good. I still find I've been getting headaches back there, but I guess that's to be expected."

"Considering the extent of your wounds and the severity of the concussion you ended up with," said Aucoin, "it's no surprise at all." What was also no surprise was the fact that Matthew had passed out cold during the trip to the hospital and remained unconscious for nearly three hours afterwards. It was a wonder he had been alert enough to get over to wherever it was Jade had been, Chris thought to himself as he watched the two talk with a quiet, polite reserve. The only reason he knew this was because he had spent the majority of that time on the phone with Alfred, talking to him about anything and everything as a way of keeping his mind off of it.

(Despite claiming to be emotionally ept and 'strong', Chris was beginning to see that he wasn't and that it did not take much to bring him down.)

When the two men beside him fell silent, along with the rest of the court, the American glanced around and then quickly stood - which he hadn't realized the others had already done, either - as the judge came into the court. The man, Kirkland, gave him a sharp, wry look before shaking his head as he took his seat, smoothing out sheets of paper before him. Chris stole a glance at the clock on the wall; it was nine on the dot. He scoffed. The man was as impeccable as ever. Was there any doubt that he would be on time?

Motioning for the people in the room to sit with a flippant gesture of his hand, the Briton rubbed the bridge of his nose before settling back against his plush office chair. "Good morning, everyone," Judge Kirkland said, voice biting. The corner of his lip was twisted sharply in an upward curve. "Such a beautiful day out today, is it not? And look at this - we get to spend it indoors! Simply _glorious_!"

Oh, how _bitter. _

Leaning across the gap between them, there was a smirk on Williams' face, an expression that caused the lawyer to grow immediately wary upon seeing it. "_Some_one didn't get laid last night," the artist commented shrewdly. Eyes flashed with wicked amusement as Chris let out a choked noise.

Eyes settled upon the two men and, as though he had heard what had been said by Matthew, Judge Kirkland's smile tightened a fraction. "For those of you who are new to the court and are _unaware of the rules, _let me give a brief rundown of them. No talking when I am talking, no cellular devices, no pagers, no texting - which falls under the no mobiles - no talking in general-"

"No smiling, sneezing, scratching, looking around, shifting in your chair, getting up to pee, or breathing," Matthew muttered in a low voice, slumping down a little in his chair. "Especially the breathing; you might smog up the air with the carbon dioxide you're releasing. We don't need to risk a greenhouse effect happening in here."

Arthur glowered at him. "Mr. Williams, I am not afraid to come down there and beat you black, blue and bloody with this here gavel," he said, a bright smile lighting up his face. An uncomfortable sort of noise - it couldn't be defined as a whine, but there was really no other way to describe it - left the Canadian and he looked pointedly at the floor. Chris let out a few low chuckles but then the judge rounded on him, wielding the gavel in his direction. "And I will gladly do it to _anyone_."

Point taken; meeting adjourned.

Shuffling through the papers before him, the judge spread them out once more. "Well, we had best be getting started on this instead of sitting about all day twiddling our thumbs," he said as he adjusted the collar of his robe. "Today we have two testimonies - one witness, and the other coming from a backing perspective for the witness. I'd like to call Mr. Matthew Williams to the stand."

Glancing over to the man seated beside him, he watched as the colour drained from his face and he suddenly looked so much younger than what he was, and terrified. Oh, God, he looked positively frightened to be getting up there in front of them. There was a look on his face that Chris had never seen - that Alfred had probably never seen, either - and he felt an almost painful pang of sympathy in his chest. Eyes were globular behind their glasses, his lips were pinched together and his expression was drawn, facial colour ghastly. It was like he had suddenly caught a glimpse of how the world was going to end - and it was not going to be a pretty sight.

Without any coercion he stood, straightening out his suit jacket and fiddling nervously with the cuffs for a moment before visibly taking a breath before heading over to take a seat behind the bench. Jackson escorted him over, standing behind him, hands locked at his lower back.

Straightening up and rising to his feet as well, Chris walked around the table and stood at the front of it, resting his backside upon the wooden structure. He had his hands in his pockets. The whole procedure of swearing on the Bible passed - something a few days before, Matthew had joked about: "I don't exactly believe in God, so where's the validity in me swearing upon a Bible? I can lie all I goddamn well want to because I won't be affected at all by it" - with ease. It was the only painless part of the whole procedure. Arms folded across his chest, he barely listened as he was given the generic questions.

The only bit Chris listened to was when the judge told him he could approach the bench for questioning did he perk up, squaring his shoulders and watching Matthew. Despite having gone over this several times, and in-depth nevertheless, he still didn't know the full story; he couldn't for the simple fact it would make for a painfully bland questioning; the young man wouldn't even have to think before replying to what he had to ask. It was bad enough his affidavit was practically scripted - he and Jones had told him what to write almost word for word when he got to the police station to go through his initial questioning.

Chris knew the _gist_ of everything. He knew that Matthew had been practically beaten to a bloody snot by the grease ball of a human being seated beside the smug-looking defence attorney, a steel placard before him that, setting off a glare from the overhead lighting, read 'defendant'. He knew that the attack had been unprovoked and his actions, a sound pulverizing that had resulted in a busted nose and bruised jaw, had been in self-defence. And that was it. He didn't know where it had happened, if there were any bystanders, what time it happened, and what it was that went down exactly - detail from gory detail.

"Permission to approach the bench?" Chris enquired, voice flat.

Nodding, Judge Kirkland settled back, green eyes discerning beneath bushy eyebrows. Jackson took a step back, standing closer to the jury to observe. Stepping forward, hands in his pocket, he walked over to where Matthew sat. The Canadian's body was rigid and he watched with guarded eyes as Chris approached; his shoulders were taut, hands out of view. More than likely he had his hands clenched in his lap, or tugging at the material of his pants. Some sort of nervous little habit. He had plenty of them to go around from what he had heard.

Arms folded across his chest, he leant back against the bench and gave the younger man a wry smile. "How are you today, Mr. Williams?"

Matthew's eyes narrowed into wary little slits, a dangerous glint in them as he scrutinized the man before him. Chris knew where he stood with him; despite the fact that they knew each other, there was a sort of hostility emanating from him. He was frigid. "I'm … doing well," he said quietly, sinking back a little in his chair as he continued to closely regard the lawyer. Chris suppressed a smile; he had every right to be cautious. People that weren't circumspect while stating their case tended to have things go against them at some point or another.

"Glad to hear it," Chris said, hoping the smile he wore was more reassuring than it felt. From the way Matthew's expression flattened he realized it probably came off as a little more condescending than encouraging. Trying not to grimace, he nodded. "Now, before I ask you to get into any major details, just tell me one thing: is that man, seated there, the one that attacked you?"

Looking away from the lawyer and staring out across the space, there was a pause as he gazed impassively at the man. Pavel watched him in return, dark eyes lifeless. Then, Matthew blinked, nodding slowly. "Of course that's him. Why are you even asking me that?"

Ducking his head a little as he heard a few chuckles from Judge Kirkland and a muttering of 'saucy little brat', Chris shrugged. "Just making sure," he said. "There'd be nothing worse than sitting in on the wrong trial, correct?"

He just made a face at this, but a tiny smile flickered at the corner of his mouth and some of the tension seemed to have filtered out of his body. "Yeah, that would probably suck," he said in a tiny voice; the lawyer couldn't help but wonder if the jury could even hear him. A glance over to the men and women and he could visibly see that some of the men and women were straining to hear him speak.

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he pulled his eyes away from the panel of adjudicators to once more watch their witness. "Alright, so now, I got to ask you, what's his name?"

"Pavel Otčar … Othen …" he floundered briefly, fumbling with his name. Then he huffed. "It starts with O, it's Slavic and I can't say it, but that's the man."

"Otčenáš?" offered the lawyer, a wry smirk on his face.

Another expression of disdain. "Yeah, that," he muttered. "Like I said, that's the man."

"Since we've established this much, let's hear what happened," Chris said. He stepped away from the bench, glanced briefly over to the jury box - still listening; still doing their job like the puppies of the State they were in fear of some sort of retribution if they did not do their job to the fullest of their capabilities - before turning his eyes back on Matthew. "Start at the beginning."

"O-Okay, well," he hesitated before starting, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment as he inhaled deeply; chest expanding and then shrinking as he let the air out of his lungs. Biting his lip as he reopened his eyes, Matthew nodded. "Okay. Yeah. My … my landlady, back before her husband came back from his business trip, would get me to help her out around the house. And if she went shopping, she'd get me to go along then, too. I'd basically carry her bags and all that, cause she'd be carrying her daughter around.

"Usually, I'd stick with her and browse around through the stores. But this time around, she was taking a lot longer to go through one of the places and I was getting really bored. So, I went in and I asked her if she was cool with me dropping her bags off at the counter; I was after spotting a little antiques shop just across the street from the boutique, and I wanted to check it out," he said, sinking back in the chair. His hands resting idle on the top of the table.

"And from there I take it you went to the antiques shop?" inquired Chris. "What was the name of the place?"

A pause; he bit his lip. "Elysian Antiques," he said after a moment, "I remember 'cause when I got back to my place I looked up the name, wondering what it meant. It's something out of Greek mythology, which makes sense, given the store owner is a little Greek lady."

Chris nodded his approval; the name was the same as the one he had in his report papers. He could trust Matthew's memory, which was almost a blessing of sorts.

"But I went in and I decided to just browse around," continued the artist. "Other than the lady at the counter, I'm pretty sure I was the only one there in the building at the time. Well, I guess I should say I thought I was the only one in there." A cold smile formed on his lips and his words were clipped. The look he shot Pavel was murderous and, from the corner of his eye, Chris saw the man recoil under the malicious glare. "All the same, I browsed around the place for a little while. Probably twenty minutes, at the most. One of the floors has a room on it that's almost like a small library. All of them are used kinds of books and stuff, so it's pretty cool. I didn't even get to look through one book when _he-_" he gestured sharply in Pavel's direction "-came out of nowhere and frightened the hell out of me."

"Alright, so this is where I need you to get really specific, okay?" said Chris. "Precise details. Keep going."

"I … I don't really remember exactly what it was that was said," he said weakly, skin paling a little. Indigo eyes flashed nervously; this was the part they had had trouble with. Fabricating a story that would work in their favour but wouldn't be a lie at the same time. No names could be mentioned for one, because that would blow Alfred's fragile cover and could potentially cause a media scandal and put him out of a job. But if they lied, there was a damn good chance Pavel would call them out on it and Matthew's testimony would be rejected by the State.

Risky business with something just a step below collateral damage.

If this testimony nuked, they could be fucked for the rest of the trial and he didn't even want to know what it would do to his friend.

"Just do your best to remember," Chris gently urged, smiling lightly. "You're not being pressured or anything, so there's no big rush; we're here until almost five o'clock this evening and it's only a little after nine-thirty. We've got all the time in the world."

Trembling at the corners of his mouth; Williams ducked his head briefly. "Even though I had never met the man in my life, he knew me by name," he said, slowly. "Like, he didn't even hesitate when addressing me. He told me he wanted to 'talk to me', despite the fact that I didn't want to. H-He sort of … verbally bullied me into a corner, told me I had taken one of his clients away from him and then he proceeded to grab me by the throat and bashed my head up against a shelf, several times."

There was silence after he spoke, Chris licking his lips as he digested what his friend's lover said, feeling his stomach turn a little. He couldn't help but wonder what the members of the jury were thinking.

"What happened after that?"

"It's kind of hard to remember," Matthew admitted - which was truthful enough; even during their practice sessions, he had had a hard time trying to pick apart his memories and string together something coherent. He hadn't even remembered Alfred calling him until the lawyer had brought it up. Panic, disorientation and fear had rendered his thoughts almost immaterial. "I just recall him slamming my head into a shelf a few times until the back of my head split open, trying to strangle me as he did. I … I don't remember what I tried to do at that point. But then he just … let go of me. My … my phone rang; it startled the both of us and he ended up letting go. It was my friend that was calling."

"I guess you could almost say your friend saved your life for calling when he did, huh?" Chris said, voice low; the words were meant for Matthew and Matthew alone. Judge Kirkland's lips curled upwards for a brief moment and the Canadian's expression softened, an alien sort of fondness filling it.

"Yeah," he whispered. "I guess you can say he did."

"Then what?" demanded Chris, raising his voice back to ear-shot. "What happened after your friend called?"

"I sort of threw myself over a sofa to get away from him - he was stood too close to the door for me to try and get around him, but I needed to get something in between us," he said. "But then I face-planted into the floor. He jumped me, grabbed my phone and then chucked it at the wall, breaking it. He stuck a knife at my throat, dug it in and sliced open some of my skin to the point that I needed stitches later on. But then, for some reason, he pulled the knife away for a moment and I just … reacted. I don't even remember thinking about doing it; I just punched him in the face. Several times."

Grabbing some papers that were handed to him by the judge, Chris nodded. "Yeah," he said. "It says here that upon his arrival at the hospital, he was sporting wounds to the face; a broken noise and a bruised jaw bone. You're responsible for this?"

Matthew's smile was meek; utterly docile when the man was far from it. "Yes, I am."

"Despite this, you can't be held at fault," said the criminal prosecutor as though it were common knowledge. "You were simply acting on the defensive; your life was being threatened by this man, who stated - which I have here, in my hands at this very moment - that his intention _was _to kill you."

Relief filtered through his expression; Alfred had told him a few nights prior that Williams was petrified he was going to get in shit for attacking him in return. An absurd fear, but veritable all the same.

"So then after you knock him unconscious you fled the scene, is that correct?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Matthew. "I took off when I realized he was out cold; I was terrified he was going to come around again with me still in the room."

"And not once did it cross your mind to phone the police before you left?" Chris asked.

The look Matthew gave him was bland. "No, not quite; I was a little more worried about the fact that I was bleeding profusely from the back of my head and throat, that I could barely walk in a straight line or see straight."

"What about the woman working there?" demanded the lawyer. "Did you say anything to her? Why wouldn't you have gone to her the moment he approached you?"

"Again, it was the last thing on my mind at the time. And, seriously? When I left she wasn't anywhere around. For all I know the poor biddy was probably out back having a hernia over the fact that there were two guys in her store _beating the living daylights _out of each other. So she wasn't exactly available for any assistance."

Which probably explained why she refused to appear in court.

Scattered chuckles, including Chris' own, followed what Matthew said and there was a light rapping from the seat beside them, Kirkland giving the artist a stern look. _Warning number one_.

This was the way the morning carried on, Chris asking him question after question to the point that he could almost _feel_ the mounting levels of frustration radiating from the man sat at the bench. But not once did Williams lose his temper - he sort of snapped on occasion, making saucy little retorts (the same kind that had earned him the nickname 'Ice Queen') to which the judge would react with a quick, reprimanding smack of the gavel on his desk.

Pictures, provided by the doctor, were handed through the members of the jury and to Judge Kirkland. They were of the wounds Matthew had sustained; before and after photographs from when he had just arrived at the hospital, still bleeding sluggishly and unconscious to stitched up like a creation of Doctor Frankenstein and still unconscious in a hospital bed hooked up on a small blood drip to equate for what he had managed to lose and an IV, just to be on the safe side.

Never having seen these photos before, Chris didn't exactly know what to expect there; unsure of whether he should be bracing himself for something unpleasant or not. His stomach turned when he laid eyes on them; the kid looked like hell. Saying that was an understatement, but it was the only way he could think of putting it. He shook his head disdainfully. No wonder Alfred had been beside himself. With the ring of bruises around his throat and the stitches poking out of them, paired with the ghastly pallor of his skin, he almost looked dead.

Matthew simply glanced at the pictures, verified them, and then returned them to the doctor's hands immediately, as though he did not wish to see what sort of state he had been in.

It was around noon when they parted for a lunch break, and the moment Judge Kirkland gave them the clearance to leave the room for the next half hour, his phone vibrated. Chris smirked, removing it from his pocket and opening the text message from Alfred.

_My office._

"Follow me this way," Chris instructed the sick-looking Canadian. At the back of his mind he was wondering if Matthew was going to puke or not.

Let's just hope he found a bathroom before the carpet became a toilet.

Alfred was seated in his office when they got there, feet up on his desk and the door to the room slightly ajar. It wasn't entirely surprising to see him sat there playing a Nintendo DS, but neither of the men said anything about it; when he looked up and saw Matthew he set the console down and stood with a smile. His boyfriend's expression, however, remained stoic. The smile slowly slipped from his lips, the edges melting downwards.

"Is everything okay?" his asked, voice low as he approached them.

Matthew nodded but said nothing. The colour hadn't returned to his face, he still looked ill, and instead of going to someone he knew would provide some form of comfort he instead edged his way around Alfred to sit down in one of the chairs facing where the man would usually sit. No words left him - maybe he had exhausted himself of them from his testimony? - and he just buried his face in his hands, took a deep (possibly an attempt at calming) breath before letting his head drop to the desk and his arms fold over the back of his head.

No one moved; Alfred just watched him with drooping shoulders and Chris didn't know what to do as he felt to be the awkward one out. There was nothing he could say because he was not the greatest at comforting people without making them feel embarrassed, and Alfred seemed to be lacking the words to do so as well.

They stayed that way - in a thick, pasty mutual silence - until the man at the desk moved again, straightening up to pull back and then slumping in the chair, spine curved. He propped his feet up on the edge of the desk, knees pressed close to his chest. He rubbed a hand down over his face, blinking sluggishly. Alfred, who had remained motionless until then, looked over to the man and heaved a sigh before training his eyes back on the floor.

Clearing his throat, DePaulo shuffled his feet a little; Jones looked over at him. "I'm going to go grab something to eat," he said. "Do either of you want anything?"

Alfred shook his head. Matthew didn't even reply; not even listening.

Well that worked nicely for him. He pursed his lips. "Okay, well, I'll be back for you in twenty minutes, alright Matthew?" Giving a nod to Alfred, he turned on his heel and left the room, not waiting for a reply from the other.

Telling them he was going out to get something to eat had been a big fat lie. When he returned for Matthew after having spent twenty minutes sat on a chair in the lobby, texting Jeff the entire while, the guy seemed to have straightened his head out a little bit better. Alfred was seated beside him, feet up on the desk and even though Matthew hadn't moved out of what had to be a painful position, he was a little more animated than before; some of the colour had returned to his face, no longer making Chris wonder if he was going to just keel over at any given moment.

"You ready?" he asked, leaning against the door frame.

Twisting in his chair, Matthew looked at him, inhaled and then nodded as he emptied his lungs. "Might as well be," he muttered, moving to stand. Chuckles left the attorney seated next to him and he grabbed the man by the chin, pulling him down for a quick peck on the cheek.

"Relax," Al murmured quietly. "You've been doing great all morning. Just answer the defence's questions the same way you were answering Chris' and you'll be out of here by three o'clock. It's going to be a breeze."

Unconvinced, Matthew just smiled thinly and nodded. "I'm holding you to your word, Princess," he muttered blackly. Chris snorted at the nickname but did not question it. "Are you coming over later?"

He nodded. "I'll leave when you guys leave, so I'll probably get to your place a few minutes after Dickface drops you off." Now it was Matthew's turn to cackle; Chris felt the tips of his ears redden. _Asshole. _

Stealing another quick kiss before leaving, Matthew straightened up and followed the smarting lawyer out of the room, a tiny smile on his face. '_Har-de-fucking-har,' _Chris thought, resisting the urge to smack him over the back of the head.

Despite Alfred's prediction for an easy afternoon, all hopes of that immediately went down the drain the moment the defence lawyer began his questioning of the man, starting with the removal of the wad of papers from his folder.

Whatever in hell it was that had possessed Alfred to say that was beyond Chris.

Maybe he had forgotten the research he had done - which, when he considered it, was highly unlikely. The man had spent several days looking up every little bit of background information and court manuscripts of trials he had participated in. There was no way he had forgotten something as important as that, that fast. No goddamn way.

So what the hell had he been thinking, saying something like that? It probably served to only get the Canadian's hopes up for an easy afternoon session. And from the look on the man's face as he boldly approached the bench, it was easy to tell that it was not going to be an easy afternoon for the young man.

Smiling icily at the Canadian, the defence attorney stood in front of him, the sheaf of papers in his hand. "So, Matthew Williams," he said. "You're twenty-two, correct?"

"Yes."

Lifting up the papers and gesturing with them, he made a light humming noise. "Awfully young. You have quite the history of mental instability, Mr. Williams," he said smoothly. "I find it hard to find any major credibility in your testimony."

Colour running out of his face like a completed canvas receiving a sudden splash of paint thinner, Matthew just sat there and stared at the lawyer with globular eyes. Judge Kirkland went wide-eyed as well while a chorus of whispers and mutterings ran through the jury. Chris drew a blank and he didn't know what to think of what was happening.

"Let's examine the evidence, shall we?" he said, practically sneering. "You've been on medication for anxiety and depression since you turned twenty. You see a psychiatrist on a regular basis. You've been hospitalized six times since the age of fifteen, three of which were for attempted suicides. The other instances were for various bodily injuries. You haven't been hospitalized for all of your suicide attempts, either. From these records, I've gotten that you've had twelve major attempts, but only three that landed you in the ICU; once on the psych ward.

"Not only do you suffer from depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and a mild case of PTSD, but you've also been involved in criminal activities yourself. Destruction of public property, trespassing on private property. Both of which you suffered the consequences for when you were sixteen. You were also granted bail and dropped charges on an armed robbery two years ago, let off after a psychiatric assessment declared you unstable and unfit to stand trial." He listed the accusations with ease; it was as if he had memorized them. "Do you deny this?"

Silence for a moment; he licked his lips and then, hesitantly, he shook his head.

Smug-looking, he settled back on his heels. "Do you expect me to believe you were the one attacked by this man? For all we know, you could have been the one that attacked him in the first place, a possibility I'm not willing to rule out."

Floundering momentarily, Matthew spluttered wordlessly as he looked about him. Then he shook his head. "Then what explains the fact that he tried to slice my throat open? That he bashed my head in unprovoked?"

"There are plenty of possible explanations. For all we know, this could have been some elaborate suicide attempt," the man said in a flat voice.

At that precise moment, Chris' cell phone vibrated and, glancing about him, he pulled the phone from his pocket and glanced at the text message. It was from Alfred:

_Do you think I'd be able to get away  
__with murdering him on the spot?_

Chris wasn't entirely sure about him being able to get away with murder in a court room full of witnesses, but he was willing to be a cover-up of any sorts because he was seriously starting to contemplate homicide, too. Fingers flying across the little keyboard, he continued to watch the proceedings as he prepared to send Al a message back.

_I don't know, but I'd kind of like to  
kill him as well. This isn't right._

"For all any of us here know, you could have worked all this out beforehand," the lawyer said smoothly. "You could have been planning on killing yourself that particular day - as I read here in these papers, your most recent attempt was back in December, which-"

"That was almost a year ago," Matthew interjected sharply.

"What about suicidal thoughts since then? Have you had any?" the man shot back.

"No, _actually_," said the artist in a flat-sounding voice. "I haven't had any, you'll be pleased to know. The thought of offing myself doesn't entirely appeal as much to me now as it did then. So I don't exactly see any logic standing behind your poorly thought-out accusations."

Flushing, the attorney fell silent for a moment. Matthew smirked. Chris' phone vibrated.

_How has my brother not ruled him out of  
__order yet I am going to go down there  
__and beat the shit out of him, too. _

Another good question, one with an answer that DePaulo wasn't entirely certain of. As the defence attorney and Matthew argued back and forth, he ran his fingers over the keyboard for a moment before putting together another reply. The judge was just watching the two, a hand over his mouth to mask the majority of his expression.

_That makes the both of we us, man.  
Should make it some sort of joint effort?_

Within a matter of seconds he received a reply, one that made him bite the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. Kirkland caught the movement and sent him a sharp, dirty look, holding up his pointer finger. _Warning number one for Chris._

_I think we should bust out  
the steel baseball bats and  
the brass knuckles. What say  
you my good man?_

"But what reason do we have to believe you?" the lawyer demanded.

"Well, for one, if I had any intentions of killing myself anytime soon, I wouldn't go about it in such a manner," Matthew said in a conversational tone. He had sunk back into his chair, arms folded across his chest. Despite his easy stance, he looked positively distressed. "Going out in public like that? Getting the crap beaten out of myself to cover up my suicide?" A bark of sardonic, hateful laughter left him. "What kind of idiot _are_ you? If I had the intentions of killing myself, that's the complete opposite way I would do it."

"_Really_ now," sneered the man. "Do enlighten me, would you?"

By now he was livid. "Number one, I wouldn't try to _slit my own goddamn throat_. That would be too messy; there'd be a lot more blood involved than necessary, and it would also make it too hard to accomplish. You'd have blood running down over your hands, and it would be impossible to grasp the blade properly. You wouldn't be able to finish the job.

"Secondly, I wouldn't try to bash my skull in either. You'd either knock yourself out before you did enough damage, or if you managed to keep alert, you'd probably just end up with some serious brain damage and risk turning into a vegetable. Honestly, that's not even worth it," he said with a sigh. "The goal is to kill yourself - hence it being called _suicide - _not to maim yourself to the point of mental deterioration. If I were to go back to that sort of mentality - willingly and seriously considering suicide an option - I think I'd go for a method a little more efficient and a lot easier. Like throwing myself off the Empire State Building. Hanging myself. An overdose. Dropping off of the Brooklyn Bridge. Or maybe pull a Sylvia Plath. Take the classy way out with my head stuck in an oven. But seriously? Slitting my own throat, bashing my head in and getting in a fight with a drug dealer after me for reasons I'm not even aware of as a cover up to my death? A little too much effort for someone that wants a quick and easy way out."

The defence attorney was silent.

Matthew's lips curled at the corner. "I have a question for you: have _you, _at any point of your life, been suicidal? Attempted to kill yourself? Self-harmed for the sake of doing so, or for the simple fact that you couldn't handle the stress of dealing with everything you were being forced to deal with at a young age and it was the best way you could think of?"

Faltering before speaking, he shook his head. "No, I haven't."

"Have you ever had the fortune of dealing with an abusive step-father or the death of your mother when you were only sixteen?" he asked. "Spent time living on the streets and dealing with addiction? Stealing despite every moral you've ever had for the sake of getting something to eat and not starving to death in a goddamn gutter?"

There was no reply. Chris was beginning to wonder what army surplus store he had purchased his balls from, and where he could get a pair like that.

"I suppose I'll take that as a no," Matthew said complacently. "So, when I tell you I'm not suicidal, it would be best if you took the liberty of trusting what I say. It's not entirely polite to suggest suicidal intentions based off a brief history of them when you have no knowledge of how someone's life situation might have changed. Is there anything else you would like to accuse me of? Anything else you would like to bring up? We've already established that I've had no prior connections to this man, that that was the first time I had ever run into him. Do you need anything else?"

When the defending lawyer opened his mouth to speak, Judge Kirkland slammed his gavel down, causing the two men to jump. "Overruled," he said in a flat voice. The white-haired man looked indignant but then made no move to speak again; staring instead at the papers he had in his hand before tossing them down on a small desk and propping his hands on his hips.

Silence hung there again for a moment, and then someone they did not expect to spoke up from his seat. "Might I have a chance to say something, yes?"

Judge Kirkland seemed to give it a moment's thought, and then, surprisingly, he nodded. "Permission to speak granted."

Pavel shifted a little in his chair, reaching up with cuffed hands, he pushed a lock of stringy black hair out of his face. "I had no intentions to say anything, but now I must say this: yes, I attacked him in the first place. There was nothing to be covered up."

Looking ready to pummel the man, the defending lawyer just clenched his hands tighter around the papers while the corner of his mouth twisted and tightened. Kirkland's eyes widened while Matthew pulled back a little, astounded. This was no longer a trial; it was a complete shit show like none other. The _accused _admitted to doing something he was supposed to be denying. It was like someone had taken the rule book and put it through the shredder. Chris couldn't even believe it and apparently Alfred couldn't, either, given the text message he received filled with various keysmashing and exclamatory marks.

Mouth working uselessly for a moment, the judge just stared at the defendant and ran a hand down over his mouth. "Well, thank you for that, ah, Mr. Otčenáš," he said in a weak sounding voice. "Can I just ask … _what_?"

Otčenáš smirked a little, hands rising again to push back some of his hair once more. The shackles around his wrists clinked as he did. "Honesty must be rewarded in some way, yes?" he said in an oily voice. "And honesty in the halls of justice is very important, yes?"

No one said anything and the defence attorney lost some colour as he rubbed the back of his neck. Judge Kirkland shifted and nodded. "Right you are," he murmured. Straightening up and shuffling through the papers before him, drawing his pen over something, he spoke in a louder voice. "Mr. Williams, I do believe you've done enough for us this morning and you are free to take a seat and remain for the rest of the proceedings."

Wobbling a little as he stood, the Canadian got down from the bench and wandered back over to the table Chris was seated at, dropping down in a chair next to him. The criminal prosecutor's phone vibrated. He glanced at the message.

_I told you that bastard is impossible to predict.  
His fucking obsession with honesty just  
__saved your ass, Dickface._

Scowling at the message, Chris replied the best way he knew how:

_Go fuck yourself._

Ignoring whatever the answer might have been when his phone vibrated, more than likely it being some God awful profanity that would make his grandmother roll in her grave, he turned to Matthew to ask him how he felt when he was immediately greeted with his answer: there were tears in the Canadian's eyes and he was after biting down so hard on his lower lip to the point that blood bubbled up around his teeth.

Choosing to say nothing at all rather than comfort the young man when he didn't even know what it was he could possibly tell him - he couldn't say something like 'oh, don't trouble yourself over the fact that he somehow managed to illegally obtain your psychiatric care files' nor could he say 'thinking about all that shit you did to yourself isn't something worth crying over'. That would be heartless, for one.

While Chris knew he was capable of that and then some, it wouldn't sit well on his shoulders.

And Alfred would probably break his jaw.

The problem persisted even as he took the Canadian home. For the remainder of the session, Matthew had said nothing; he hadn't even moved from his spot - when Kirkland declared the day to be over, he didn't move at first nor did he acknowledge it. He had continued to sit there, more than likely lost in thought.

Awkwardness had taken over at first as he returned to their table after his final explanation of how the man was indeed guilty of attempted murder and at least one charge of assault causing bodily harm and possession of a concealed weapon. That would get him at least a handful of years. But when he had approached the table, Matthew had acted like he wasn't even there, just staring blankly at the surface while chewing on his knuckle.

It had taken a firm shake to the shoulder to bring him around to a proper level of awareness again, and then they finally left.

Gripping the steering wheel, Chris swallowed thickly and dug his palms into the rim of it, trying to wipe the sweat from them. Matthew's silence this time around was disconcerting instead of uncomfortable. Anything possible could have been going through his head at that point, and whether it was good or not was left to be decided. But he was damn certain that what was going through it wasn't all happiness and rainbows, either.

As he pulled over to the side of the road to let him out, he cleared his throat and rubbed his jaw. "Thanks for all that today," he said lowly.

Impassively staring at the lawyer, Matthew gave a one-shouldered shrug. "No problem," he muttered.

He held onto the wheel tighter than before. "And, well, sorry you had to deal with that shit today," said Chris, not quite knowing where the apology was going to do him any good; he wasn't the one that needed to apologize. "What he pulled on you was goddamn well uncalled for."

Williams squirmed a little in his seat, biting down on his damaged lip again. "Shit happens, eh?" he whispered. Chris grimaced; he shouldn't have said anything at all. "Some people like to play dirty in court. I get that."

From the corner of his eye he watched as a black Mercedes pulled up alongside them, did a sharp U-turn involving screeching tires and then parked on the other side of the road. Matthew glanced over and smirked. "Fucking shittiest driver I've ever seen," he said with a groan. "Doesn't understand the concept of following the so-called rules of the road."

Chris chuckled. "Yeah, that sounds like Jones. I would like to find the idiot that gave him his licence and give him a good slap."

Soft chuckles; clearly, he wasn't the only one that felt the same way. And he knew that Allan shared the sentiment - the programmer blatantly refused to get in a car with Jones when he was the driver. Anyone else could be behind the wheel, but if he was, Allan would let all hell loose to try and get out of being in a vehicle with him - as if it were a matter of life and death. In most instances, it was.

Strained as Matthew's smile was, at least it was there. He let out a soft sigh. "Well, I'm sure Alfred will let me know how everything goes with this," said the young man. "Later." Getting out of the car, he shut the door and, without waiting for Alfred, he shuffled over to the steps that would take him to his apartment.

Sitting there uselessly in the driver's seat of his SAAB, drumming his fingers idly along the bottom of the steering wheel, Chris found he was beginning to feel more and more awful for not being able to offer any words of comfort other than a 'there there, it's fine' and a sorry that didn't even belong to him.

A heavy thump on his window cause the lawyer to jerk with a startled noise, and when he rounded on Alfred, he cursed and rolled down the window. "The fuck is _wrong_ with you, you goddamn asshole?"

Jones smirked. "Absolutely nothing, Dickface," he snapped. "You're just paranoid. Thanks for dropping him off. How was he on the way over?"

Chris gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You better be well-versed in the art of comforting," he said flatly. "He was pretty quiet on the way back and I think he's ready to go and have another good cry for himself, the poor guy."

Face falling; the DA pulled away a little. "How quiet is _quiet_?"

"He didn't say a single, goddamn word from the time he got off the stand until I just dropped him off," he said. "So I'm guessing that qualifies as pretty damn quiet, don't you think?"

"Then I guess that's why he wouldn't reply to any of my texts," he said, rubbing a hand down over his face. He was visibly stressed now. "Fuck. I'm going to murder that bastard's lawyer."

"Like you said, let's make it a party."

"Best fuckin' party New York has seen since the Stonewall riots."

Nodding his approval, DePaulo smirked. "We can invite the whole clan if you want."

Alfred seemed to give it some thought. "I'm sure Jeff and Allan would love to get in on it," he said with a shrug. "At least I'm sure Jeff would get a kick out of it, the sadistic little freak that he is." Falling silent the lawyer inhaled deeply and looked over the top of the car, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he gave Chris a firm pat on the shoulder and left without another word to the man.

Sitting there, vehicle idling and his hands on the lower part of the steering wheel, Chris let out a heavy sigh before throwing the car into drive. He felt like a pile of shit over this, and he knew it wasn't going to stop there. Maybe a hot shower would make him feel better; Vanessa would be home from the pharmacy until later that evening, so he'd hold off on dinner so he didn't have to eat by himself.

Who knew being miserable like that could be so frightfully contagious?


	32. Chapter 32

**CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.**

After several days of close observation within the week that followed his testimony, Alfred eventually determined one thing: Matthew was, in all meanings of the word, miserable (Depressed was probably a better way to put it, but the man was desperate to avoid the possibility of that upsetting thought). Even going to see McKnight a second time in a week hadn't done anything for him; the man was reluctant to put him on a stronger dosage of medication.

'_Wait it out,_' McKnight had apparently said. '_If you start to feel worse within the next two to three weeks, come back to me. I'll do an assessment and we can go from there._'

Not knowing what to do or what he could say to make him feel better, all Alfred could do was stand by and watch and hope he would come around sooner rather than later.

It was like he had lost all interest in doing anything and everything. He just alternated between sleeping and working; barely talking during the day - he had called his boyfriend maybe once, and after that any other time that they spoke it was all instigated by the lawyer. Matthew made no effort to do anything whatsoever. Hell, if Alfred didn't remind him to get something to eat, he probably wouldn't. And it didn't help that his temper was worse than usual. The littlest thing set him off. His patience was non-existent. In fact, it was a frightfully similar-to-last-year Matthew he was dealing with. This, of course, only worried him all the more.

He didn't know who the bigger bundle of nerves was anymore - himself, or Matthew.

The thoughts - the constant worry of whether or not he would sink any further and turn back into a state of being a risk to himself - were constantly with him, no matter what he did.

They were even with him on the days he tried to relax. Leaving the court house with a stack of books under his arm, Alfred slipped on a pair of sunglasses while running a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as he bit the inside of his mouth. The air was cool but the sun still maintained some of its summer warmth, dismissing the need to wear a jacket just yet - although it was important to keep away from the shadows, as that was where the coldness dwelled, patiently waiting for the unsuspecting passer-by still confident in their shorts and t-shirt to latch upon and seep into them and chill them to the core. Alfred was quite content to be in his favourite suit - a black Versace with a silk Armani tie. No need for a warm jacket; his suit was lightweight enough to keep him cool but still warm enough to keep the coolness of the shadows from chilling him.

Adjusting the books as he walked to the car he had to park three blocks away, he glanced down to make sure none of them were slipping. Maybe he should have taken his brief case. That would have been a lot easier. The afternoon had been spent cleaning out shelves in his office to make room for the new books he needed to put in there - State told him he needed to take some more courses and they would provide him with the necessary materials. Which was decent of them. Several were law text books he was bringing back home since they had been collecting dust on the shelves after finishing one of the training courses he had done upon finding out he was going to be DA. The other several hardcover books he carried were ones that he had found at an outdoor book sale he had passed on his walk to the court house.

These books in particular were … a little less than diplomatic, and were most certainly _not _meant for someone his age. Not that that was going to stop him from reading them whenever he got the chance.

But the Hardy Boys were the goddamn _Hardy Boys_. Who was he to turn down the last few books he needed to complete his collection? An _adult_? Not fucking likely.

This was, like, the end-all, be-all to everything he had been trying to accomplish since he was fifteen and took an interest in reading stuff other than the Saturday paper's funnies. Now he could say he owned all of the best mystery books ever. The entire Sherlock Holmes collection (a gift from his brother), all of the Nancy Drew books and now all of the Hardy Boys.

This was a damn good day.

Now, if he could finish his collection of all the Halo novels and Resident Evil novels, then he would be laughing all the way to the Bank of Total Happiness.

Grumbling as he adjusted the sliding books again, he shifted them so that instead of carrying them beneath his arm like a football, he had them cradled against his chest. At least this way they wouldn't slide-

The lawyer's eyes widened as a jolt of pain shot up from his toe right along his leg and straight up through his spine as one of the law books dropped from his arms and down onto his foot as he walked, followed by the other ones he carried.

Looking downwards with drooping shoulders and a heavy sigh, Alfred ran a hand down over his face before scooping the books back up again, a fumbling dance accompanying the effort of trying to line them all up in a way that was simple to carry. No such luck - they all dropped again and this time a curse left him.

"How the _fuck_ do bookworms do this," he demanded beneath his breath as he dropped back down to heft them up once more. "Do they have classes they take on this shit? Focus groups? Bibliophile's Anonymous meetings where they show them how to maximize book-carrying potential instead of helping them deal with the compulsion to have books, books and more _fucking books_?"

Fed up with wrestling the books for domination, Alfred sat there on the sidewalk, massaging his forehead as he glowered at the wretched things. There was a reason he didn't buy books for himself very often; half of the time they either cost too much or something like _this _ended up happening. All of the goddamn books ending up in a pile of words and sentences and pages and binding glue. He almost considered leaving them there but then decided against it; Matthew would murder him with a smile on his face and telling him he loved him the entire while if he caught wind of the New Yorker committing a crime as heinous as such.

Matthew had once told him (whether he was sober or under the influence of something still remained an unknown factor) that people who didn't treat books - no matter the genre, no matter the content, no matter the hypocrisy of the writer - with their due respect were the people that helped governments make idiotic decisions, and were generally uneducated by choice which would always in the end bode unfavourably for the population as a whole. Those people, Matthew had told him, deserved to be lynched before they ended up in seats of power and started trying to establish rules that could potentially cause a society to collapse in upon itself and implode.

When Jones considered it, he realized there was a good chance Matthew had been completely sober while telling him that.

An awfully unsettling thought.

He shuddered and scooped up the books the best he could. There would be no abandoned books to weep over this evening, which was for certain.

Looking about the storefronts, the lawyer perked up upon seeing a small corner store. Those kinds of places had bags, right? And sticking the books in a few bags would make them way easier to carry, given that was the purpose of a bag after all…

Practically kicking the entryway open (full hands = diminished mobility, after all) and scooting in around the quickly-closing door, Alfred once more felt the books slipping from his grasp. He was obviously going about carrying the wrong way, but goddamn it there was an even easier way than _that _way to lug them around.

Dropping the pile on the counter, he looked at the girl who peered at him with a look that was a mixture of fascination and confusion. Then he grinned stupidly.

"Can I … like … _help _you, or something?" she asked, cracking her gum nosily as she set down her _Vogue _magazine, staring at him with a pointed lack of interest.

"I need a _bag._"

The girl's expression flattened. "_Do_ you now?" she asked. "What _kind _of bag?"

"A … a bag to put _stuff _in!"

It looked for a moment like the girl was going to throw her magazine at the lawyer but instead she just gave him an amused little smile. '_Holy shit,_' Alfred thought as she rummaged through a drawer, '_she's patronizing me. Some little teenage bitch is actually _patronizing _me. Isn't there a law against this shit?_'

(The answer being no, of course.)

Slapping a handful of plastic bags down on the counter, the girl picked her magazine back up without another word, pursing her lips and almost pressing the book to her nose as she browsed through the fashion spreads. She cracked her gum again. Picking up and opening a bag, Alfred hesitated and then looked at the other bags before setting it down and rubbing a hand over his mouth. This wouldn't go over well.

Lowering the magazine when she realized he still hadn't left, the girl frowned. "What?" she demanded as she watched him, the way he was fumbling with the plastic, picking and poking at the bag as though with enough handling it would turn into something else. "Are those bags, like, not _good enough _for you or something?"

Alfred spluttered. "N-_No,_" he whined (he would deny that), "I never said anything like that. It's just that, um, y'see…" his voice dropped and he squirmed a little, still absently plucking at the bags. "My, um, boyfriend doesn't like using plastic and he'd probably kill me if I came home with more…"

The girl studied him for a moment. Then: "Is that seriously why you don't want to use them? Are you, like, _whipped _or something?"

Cheeks turned scarlet, but Jones said absolutely nothing; just puffed his cheeks out a little.

"Oh, _my_ God. You are totally whipped, boy-o," the young woman said with a bright titter. "Just for that, I'll give you a reusable bag. So you can keep, like, being whipped and all that."

As nice as it was, Alfred could barely pay attention to what she was saying for all the Valley Girl he heard yammering away. It was just this steady 'blah de blah blah blah' with the occasional girly giggle thrown in. There was this one girl he had slept with, he recalled, when he was in university. During his freshman year. The girl, while absolutely beautiful and a stereotypical California-blonde with long legs and a fantastic tan and a boob job her parents must have gotten for her sixteenth birthday, was an excellent lay. She was also a complete and utter bimbo that spoke in the exact same way that this girl did and it was enough to drive him batty.

Thanking the young woman with a mutter and a tiny smile, he tested the book-filled bag and left the shop with the black cloth bumping his knees as he walked. Alfred took out his phone and skimmed down through the messages that had popped up while he had been engaging in mental and semi-physical warfare with the books. Three from Chris - all of them various forms of 'I want to kill [insert a person's name] because [insert a various reason including a lengthy explanation]' - there was one from Jeff, asking him if he was going drinking with them next weekend, and there was one, surprisingly enough, from Matthew.

This hadn't happened in a few days; his heart skipped a beat or two - maybe he was beginning to come around? Finally?

Opening that one first, he blinked slowly and then just stared at the message as he slowed to a stop.

It was nothing but alphabet vomit with the occasional punctuation mark thrown in.

Barely looking as he crossed the street, skirting around cars as he put together a reply, he chuckled and then yelped as a taxi slammed on its brakes and blared the horn.

_What the fuck was that?_

Pocketing his phone for the time being, he hopped up on the sidewalk and fished out his car keys, popping open the passenger side door to dump the books down on the seat. Crawling across the console he flopped down on the driver's side, wrenching his body around to sit properly, his phone vibrated.

With a curse, arching his back to try and get his phone out without mangling any of his limbs, he somehow wrenched it out and flopped back down, breathing heavily.

_Sorry; your goddamn cat walked  
all over my phone. Must have sent  
off a message to you or sumthin._

Since when had Matthew been at his place? Alfred glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he started his Benz, revving the engine before pulling out onto the road, gaze steadily flickering between the road and the response he was constructing. The guy wasn't supposed to be off work until six, but it was only a little bit after four.

_What are you doing at my  
place already? I thought  
you had to work til 6?_

Setting the phone down on his lap as he drove, he sped up as he neared a yellow light, taking a sharp turn and wincing at how his tires screeched on the pavement.

It really was no wonder his friends sometimes hated getting in a car with him when he was the driver. The Wrangler, they didn't quite mind; he drove that at a respectable speed for the simple fact that there were times when it felt like he was driving a small, suburban tank. The Benz, however, was light on her wheels and easy to speed in. Phone vibrating, he slowed down as he picked it up to read the message.

_Mmm yeah. Nope. I decided  
that I didn't want to stay until 6.  
I skipped my hour lunch and left  
an hour early. So I invaded your  
place~_

Why wasn't he surprised that this was the case? Laughing and shaking his head as he made another turn, he waited until the car was right in the lane before replying.

_Fantastic. I'll be home in a few then.  
Just left my office. xx _

Tossing the phone onto the seat beside him and settling in against the material of his own seat, Alfred flexed his hands on the wheel before pulling onto another side street. It was so nice out. Maybe they could go for a walk around Central Park after they had something to eat; he couldn't remember the last time they had had a chance to do something as simple as that. Sure it was nice to go out and do stuff, but it was also nice to go out and doing nothing in particular. Hell, it had been a while since they had done nothing together.

Humming to himself, Jones gave a small smile. That was something Matthew probably needed - to just get out for the evening and do nothing in particular. Have a little fun doing nothing; have a good time going nowhere.

Sometimes it was a good thing to do stuff with nothing really in mind.

Mental idleness was therapeutic at times.

When he got back to his place, he suddenly wasn't entirely sure how keen Matthew would be on the idea of going out for a walk; his thoughts had gone from confident and eager to lingering-in-the-sewers and lacking any and all confidence. Dropping the bag of books down by the kitchen table and draping his suit jacket over the back of a chair, he scratched the back of his neck and then bent down with a grin, hefting up Oreo - the cat with an expanding waistline - and cradling the animal against his chest as he cooed utter nonsense before setting the feline down.

Carefully stepping around the cat as she twined her body about his legs, jumping upwards to rub herself against his shins possessively, he approached Matthew, hands behind his back. The Canadian was seated at the piano, head down on the wood and one arm draped over the back of his head. His cellphone was resting on the polished black finish beside where he had his head lain to. Single-handedly he played a steady melody; soft and delicate, and lingering around the lower notes.

Greeting him by pressing his lips to the younger man's neck, he smiled and nuzzled the soft skin there and his lover made a light noise of appreciation.

"Having fun?" he teased, sitting down on the bench beside him. Matthew didn't lift his head but gave him a tiny smile, eyes flickering back to the keys.

"I guess," he said lightly. "It's better than being at work."

Alfred continued to watch the way his fingers twisted deftly along the ivory and occasionally the ebony keys, coaxing lovely noises from it with the slightest effort. It wasn't a familiar tune or anything, and there was no sheet music out. Was he playing something from memory? Or was he just simply pressing the notes at random, a random that had fallen into an easy, melodic pattern? Reaching out across the space to run his fingers along a pale cheek, he cocked his head and looked his face over before letting his hand fall. Matthew was watching him.

There was something in his eyes that he didn't like; it made the lawyer feel numb and cold, and he felt a bubble of worry worming its way to the surface. The bubble had been there for a few days now but it was taking this moment to make itself well known. But his expression was wooden, practically vacuous. He just wanted to pull the Canadian against him and hold him there, arms around him so he could whisper to him that everything would be just fine - words that were meant for him and only him. But it was as if he feared that his emotional fragility extended to his body and so Jones sat there motionless, just taking in his partner's placid look.

"You okay?" Al asked.

There was no immediate answer but then Matthew shrugged before sitting up, pulling his hand away from the piano and letting it sit limp in his lap, the other one joining it. "I don't know," he admitted, sliding over to him and curling in against the lawyer's side. Alfred wrapped an arm around him. Mattie put his head down on the man's shoulder and he let out a shuddering sigh, eyes slipping shut. "I feel awful most of the time. Actually, scratch that. All the time. If I could just stay in bed for the next month and hibernate, I think I'd feel a bit better."

"Sleeping for a month won't do you any good though," Alfred murmured into his hair, inhaling deeply. Despite it all a smile quirked the corner of his mouth upwards; God, he loved the sweet citrus smell of his shampoo. "What's bothering you?"

He squirmed a little. "It's just … everything I had to bring up, piled on top of Gilbert leaving has me feeling miserable," he said with a heavy sigh, running a hand down over his face. "I mean, I was feeling shitty enough after Gil left because I mean yeah, sure I have you and Mathias, but other than that, who else do I really have to talk to? I can't bother Jade and Greg all the time; they have their own circle of friends and acquaintances and I don't wanna barge in on their happiness. I'm okay friends with Antonio and Ivan, but I mean, they're not really people I would go to and ask them to hang out with me because our interests aren't similar enough to call them best friends or whatever, and it's going to be another three weeks or so before I get to see Francis when he comes back over from Paris. So, I have you and Mathias and that's pretty much it. But now, with all _that_ shit added to it - having to bring stuff up that I haven't had a reason to think about or consider for months now just to shut that fucker up - I just feel so fucking gross and _everything sucks_. Hard."

Tightening his arm around the other, Alfred just pressed his face fully into the Canadian's curly blonde hair while the young man buried his face into Jones' shoulder. There was nothing he could do and that just made him feel all the more worse about it.

Arm around shoulders that were tense, they stayed that way for the longest while, neither of them speaking.

As badly as he wanted to say something to him that would at least make him feel a quarter better, there was nothing he could dredge up. He was wordless and he hated himself for it; this was entirely unlike him.

"I think I'm going to go and lie down for a little while or something," Matthew said quietly as he wormed his way out of Alfred's grasp, masking a yawn as he stood, shoulders hunched. He looked so tired.

Alfred nodded, setting his hands down in his lap and twisting his fingers together until it hurt them; welding them into shapes the did not belong in. "Okay," he said. Scratch the idea of going for a walk in the park. Jones felt his heart sink a country mile. There was always next week, right? His voice gave out before he even had a chance to speak, so he swallowed and gave it a moment before attempting again. "When do you want me to wake you up?"

He stretched lazily. "In an hour or so; my original plan wasn't exactly to come over here and spend the evening asleep."

Managing a dry laugh, Alfred nodded, sinking back against the piano, some notes sounding out as his weight pushed them down. The chords were shrill-sounding - the only music he had ever made with the damn instrument, even if it was an utter cacophony.

Then Matthew bit down on his lip, glared at the floor as his cheeks reddened and impulsively he grabbed Alfred's hand and forced him to stand, dragging him along as he headed over to the stairs. Watching him, he stumbled after the quick pace he had set. Not looking where he was going, instead he just stared down at their hands. His skin was cool and dry; absently, Alfred let his fingers graze along his boyfriend's wrist, the skin smooth beneath them. Eyes flashed in his direction, gaze arctic and he felt _cold_, before lowering and turning away altogether.

"You should come with me," he muttered, gaze averted and on the floor. "I … I could use someone to lie down with right now." Given that he was being tugged up and over the flight of stairs, there really wasn't that much of an option for him to say yes or no. Not that he would turn down his request to lie down together; he wasn't that crazy yet.

(Though there were times that he wondered.)

A grin broke out across his face and his heart might have skipped a beat as he tightened his grip on his hand.

His room was still in the same, messy state it had been in when he had left earlier in the day. Letting go of the hand as he crossed the room to close the blinds in his loft, Alfred hauled his belt off and dropped it on an arm chair before lowering the shades to keep the evening sunlight out of the room. Darkened to the point of being able to see nothing more than a vague outline of the other man, he squinted a little before shucking off the rest of what he wore; boxers it was. Matthew crossed the room with zombie-like steps, stripping off his work clothing as he went, letting the various pieces fall to the floor and paying no heed to the mess he made. Not that it mattered; one of them could pick the pieces up later.

Clothing strewn about on the floor was a normal occurrence in the DA's bedroom; sometimes it just took too much effort to take his dirty clothing that extra few feet across the room to dump it in his hamper.

He stopped at the foot of the bed and grabbed up a t-shirt, hauling it down over his head before crawling on top of the bed and flopping down when he got closer to the center. A complete and utter mattress hog. Al scoffed. Hauling a pillow toward his head and the blankets up over his body, Matthew curled up and buried his face, taking as much of the covering as he could and tightening it around his body.

Standing there at the side of the bed, a hand on his hip, Jones laughed before crawling onto the bed and hovering over the man, grinning when the top of his head poked out from beneath the comforter. Indigo eyes, bleary and drooping, narrowed in his direction and then immediately disappeared back beneath the covers. Dropping onto his side with a grunt, Alfred slid beneath the blankets as well and wrapped himself around him, letting his mouth rest on a clothed shoulder. Cool, dry hands sought his own warm ones and he curled himself in as close as he could to Matthew's body.

A noise of appreciation left him. "You're a good blanket, Princess. Keep up the good work."

Chuckles. "You make for a pretty damn good pillow yourself, Pet."

Matthew just hummed before nestling down, making some lip-smacking noises as Alfred settled in, absently rubbing his palm in circles on the man's abdomen. Glancing back over his shoulder he smiled groggily at the American behind him and then dropped his head down once more, disappearing partially beneath the blankets again. In no time he went limp, breathing deep and even as he let himself sink deeper and deeper. The tenseness abandoned him completely as he slept, putting Jones at a relative ease.

Pressing his cheek against the shoulder, he shut his eyes and exhaled heavily. Why was there nothing he could do or say that would make him feel better? His fingers dug into the material of the shirt he wore and a lump of frustration started to swell and burn in the back of his throat. It was like some sort of emotional Berlin Wall had gone up between them and there was no possible way to breach it.

All he wanted was to see him smile without looking like the strain of it was going to cause him to burst out sobbing.

That wasn't too much to ask for, and honestly if he could do it and work it on his own so that it was possible, he would do that and then some.

When his palm was numb he stopped massaging the sleeping man's lower stomach and let his arms lie limp about his body, content to lie there and listen to him breathe. Asleep, he looked to be more content - at ease as he was now sweetly oblivious to everything and everyone. Alfred's lips slipped into a frown; maybe he hadn't been lying when he had said he wanted to sleep for a month in hopes of feeling better.

'_Patience,_' the lawyer decided as he absently tightened his grip on him. A little bit of patience was all he needed. Matthew had had an obscene amount of patience with him throughout the end of spring and over the course of the first little bit of the summer - it was high time he repaid him for every little thing he had done, and then some. He'd give Matthew his space when he asked for it.

But he didn't want him lounging around and wallowing all alone, either - that would do nothing more than make things worse for him.

The dead last thing he wanted for him was to end back up on stronger medications; pills that would cloud his thoughts and give him an artificial happiness that would wear off in six to eight hours.

Freeing up one of his hands and, attempting to remove his phone without disturbing the sleeping artist, Alfred squirmed briefly before managing to haul it out of his back pocket with a grunt. As he did his wrist cracked, causing tears to spring up into his eyes, the snapping sound a little bit louder than usual in the silent room. He froze when Matthew stirred, holding his breath. A moment later he let it out in a whoosh when all he did was press in closer, a delicate hand lacing their fingers together and successfully tugging the arm holding him even closer. "Comfort mooch," he muttered with a wry little smirk, bring up his yellow pages application on his iPhone.

Maybe they didn't have to go to Central Park this evening; that was something they could save for some other time.

There was one thing he had in mind, and whether Matthew wanted to or not didn't entirely matter.

Giving him an extra half an hour to sleep, lying there and drifting in and out of a light doze himself, Alfred finally stirred with a low groan, arching his back as he stretched (successfully knocking his phone to the floor). Looking over the side of the bed and grimacing at the strangled mewl that came from the cat curled up at the small of his back that he had nearly flattened into the mattress, he stared at the phone lying on the floor. The battery had popped out of it, the screen was black. Rolling his eyes and grunting he just shook his head. Piece of shit could stay there. Then he flopped limply once more, draped over the younger man.

As nice as the thought of staying there for the rest of the evening and just sleeping together sounded to him - and he knew there would be no objection from the other - they couldn't; there was stuff that they needed to do for the evening. No sense in bailing when the plans had been made. Groggily licking at his lips and yawning, he gave Matthew's shoulder a gentle shake, rising up a little on his elbow to peer down at the sleeping form in front of him. Knees drawn up close to his midsection and his chin pressed to his collar bone, blankets bundled all around him and a dull flush from warmth on his cheeks. It was a crime to wake him up.

The hand that reached out from the blankets and smooshed itself into Alfred's face seemed to think so, too.

Dropping his full weight on him, Alfred grinned and chewed sloppily on his warm cheek. A disgusted moan sounded out. "C'mon, Pet," he cajoled, "wake up."

"Nnnghhh."

"Don't give me that zombie shit, Mattie."

"Nnnnggghhh_nnnnnnghh_hhhh."

He received an elbow to the stomach and Alfred grunted, the wind knocked out of him. "You and I are going out this evening, so haul ass and get up."

This got his attention. Rubbing at his eyes with the palm of his hand, Matthew yawned and then rolled over onto his back before looking warily at his boyfriend. "_Are_ we now?" he demanded.

Jones chuckled and moved off of him, lying back down on his side. "Yes," he affirmed. "Yes we are going out, whether you like it or not."

"I guess that's acceptable," said Matthew, stretching and yawning again. Blinking, he stared up at the somewhat low ceiling, focusing on a darkened light fixture before shutting his eyes. "Better than staying in all evening and doing nothing, eh?"

"… _Eh._"

Snickers followed this and then a grunt as Matthew gave him another good smack across the stomach.

"Much better than doing nothing," Alfred grunted, massaging the spot where he had been hit. There would be bruises. Quiet laughter left the man lying beside him and Mattie curled in close, tugging a chin in need of a shave over for a small kiss; Jones smirked, intercepting it by tilting his head and planting one square on his mouth. When they pulled apart his cheeks were bright pink and the lawyer had a dumb grin on his face. "Yup. Much better."

Laughter; Alfred felt a sense of ease bloom and he ruffled already messy locks of blonde hair.

"Feeling any better?" he asked.

Indigo eyes focused on him for a moment, and then Matthew made a thoughtful noise. "Sort of," he admitted. "I don't feel as tired at least…"

With a pleased-sounding murmur, Alfred grinned. That was close enough to what he wanted to hear - as nice as it would have been for him to come out and say, '_Yup. I'm totally fine now and it feels like nothing happened at all!_' he knew damn well that there was no way in hell that was going to happen. In fact, if that did happen, he probably would have started question the man's already questionable cranial chemical imbalances.

"You probably just needed that nap a lot more than what you thought you did," Al offered, pulling back and sitting up, knees drawn to his chest.

Stretched off on his back with his hands folded neatly behind his head, Matthew looked up to him and then smiled crookedly. "It would seem that way," he said with a yawn before forcing himself to sit up, leaning his weight back on one hand as he rubbed his hand slowly over his face. Then: "Where are we going?"

Alfred's grin brightened. "You'll find out when we get there."

Eyes narrowed into a glare and instead of making any move to get up, the artist just flopped onto his back and continued to glare up at the other man. "I wanna _know,_" he whined, flouncing with a spiteful huff.

"And you call _me _a child?" Jones demanded as he got off the bed, stretching his arms up over his head before rolling his shoulders back, popping the kinks out of them. He grabbed his dress shirt up again off the floor and shrugged it on, buttoning it up only half way. "If I'm a child then you, Pet, are a brat."

Matthew stuck out his tongue before rolling over onto his stomach, burying his face in amongst the numerous pillows Alfred claimed he needed in order to sleep. Five feather and two memory foam pillows. There was absolutely no need for it, he admitted this, but there was something nice about drowning in a sea of seemingly endless pillows. Matthew never complained about it, either; in fact he seemed to love the fact that he had human pillow either in front of or behind him, several pillows under his head and in the spot Alfred wasn't he would have a few stuffed there as well. And then there were the blankets to contend with.

Oh, Lord. The _blankets._

There was the fitted sheet on the bed, which didn't really count. It was a necessity, and it just came with the sheet set. Might as well use it if it's there. During the summer, there weren't as many blankets. Just the main sheet and the comforter - nothing major, just enough to keep comfortable with.

Winter, on the other hand, and it became a different story altogether. Another two or three blankets would be easily added to the two from the summer. Winter, Jones found, was the worst damn season ever, especially for where he lived. The summer and early fall months were perfect; he got all the sunlight that came in but the place never got too warm thanks to the gift of year-round air conditioning. But when it got colder, that blessing of having air conditioning 24/7 turned into a veritable curse and he felt like the one being given the short end of the stick because he had no way of turning off the cool air continuously blasting into the place and there was no sense in combating it by turning on the heat because - as his boyfriend would bitch and moan for a month of Sundays about how it was a complete and total waste of fucking energy and did he really want to be the harbinger of an environmental Doomsday? - he didn't want to waste his money on useless heat he wouldn't even feel. So he piled on the blankets.

Watching the losing battle his boyfriend was fighting, and the fact that his reluctance to get up was visible in his sluggish movements, Alfred realized then and there what the problem was. It was the afore mentioned plethora of pillows and blankets. They were what were keeping him in the bed. And the thought of staying in the bed with all those pillows and blankets and the soft mattress and with a warm body _did _sound absolutely fantastic…

'_No,_' Alfred snapped firmly to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt his body beginning to gravitate back to the bedside. '_Curling back up will get you absolutely nowhere. And you're going out this evening, so being in bed isn't exactly going out._'

Forcing himself to his feet, standing there with one hand under his shirt as he scratched at his stomach, Williams looked around the room before yawning a little, squinting. Grappling with one hand for his glasses he flicked the bedside lamp on with his other before dropping back to sit on the edge of the bed once more.

"Dude," Alfred said, trying to suppress the rising chuckle. He attempted to look stern but ultimately failed as he flushed an intriguing shade of pink when the younger man bit down on his lower lip, lowering his eyelids a little as he turned his head a little to look over. "I will pick you up off of that bed, turn on the fuckin' water and I will wash you in the shower myself."

A look of defiance flared to life in the heavily-lidded eyes settled upon him, brightening with a spark Alfred hadn't seen in them in weeks. Matthew's lip curled a little as he sneered at his lover. "_Really _now?" he demanded, flopping back with his arms stretched out over his head. As he did this he brought his leg up, heel digging into the edge of the mattress. "I fucking _dare_ you, Princess."

He couldn't help but smirk, going over and dropping his weight down on the bed, suspending himself over the prone man. "Yes," he stated matter-of-factly, "gladly."

Hands slid up along his face, cupping his cheeks to pull him down for a sloppy, upside-down kiss. Their teeth grinded uncomfortably, Alfred almost accidentally bit Matthew's tongue in the process and somewhere along the way they both ended up with lips that were slightly swollen, but only from the fact that they had been crushed together a little too awkwardly for it to work properly.

Licking at his lips, Matthew gently bit down on his boyfriend's jaw before smirking up at him once more. "Prove it," he demanded with another nip.

"_Prove _it?" he muttered against his cheek, lips curling into a wicked smile. "No problem."

And that was how Alfred F. Jones ended up fully clothed in the shower, forcefully washing the hair and body of a hysterically giggling Canadian that could barely stand from the weakness that came with laughing to the point of being unable to breathe.

It was amazing, the lawyer thought, that it hadn't amounted to anything. But then again, as fantastic as it had been (and as arousing) to have the other pulled close against him and being able to touch him shamelessly had been, neither of them had sought any reason to turn what they were doing in the shower to actually … _doing _something in the shower. And as attractive as the thought of shower sex sounded to him, it didn't seem right. At least not at the given moment.

The lawyer didn't know he was capable of such will power to abstain the way he did, and either Matthew was immune to his so-called charms (highly probable) or he felt the same way.

It was encroaching on darkness by the time they had finished getting ready. The day, he noted, had cooled off immensely; they were five days away from the start of October, and even though the day still retained some heat, the moment the sun started to go the air was cold, crisp. Leaves on the trees were losing the little bit of chlorophyll they had managed to keep hold of and the younger of the trees were already losing their leaves.

Fall, the American decided as he settled the warm material of the bomber jacket over his shoulders, was definitely the best time of year; while summer was wonderful in its own right, spring was tolerable and winter was just terrible and needed to go away and never come back, fall was just perfect. The right amount of warmth without being sweaty or without having to worry about melting snow. No frost bite worthy enough of freezing a Russian's ball sack like what you'd deal with during the winter months. Fall was the perfect time of year.

And there was always Halloween as an added bonus, and the fantastic costume party Allan always held at his place.

Seemingly incapable of wiping the smile off of his face, Matthew was seated beside Alfred in the passenger seat, still grinning dumbly with his hands folded in his lap and staring out through the windshield; Jones spared him a glance and let out a soft chuckle.

He was shot a withering look, which was creepy in contrast to the grin on his face. "What?" Matthew demanded.

"I think you've been smiling more for the past hour than what you have in the past week," Alfred said with a small chuckle, shaking his head a little.

The Canadian's expression thinned out a little. "R-Really?" he asked.

Hands flexing, Al nodded, his own smile - one he hadn't noticed he had even been wearing until he felt the corners of his mouth drooping a little - diminishing as he glanced at the clock on his dashboard. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It's … kind of upsetting."

Matthew seemed to sink a little, curling in upon himself as though he wished to turn invisible. Alfred cursed himself out for it. "I don't know how you even bother putting up with me when I'm like this," he muttered, turning his head to stare fully out his window. His smile had all but vanished.

He didn't like where this conversation was going. Not one little bit. So, Alfred gave his thigh a gentle squeeze and grinned when Matthew's head snapped back in his direction. "Sometimes you just have to deal with shit as it comes to you when you love someone enough, right?" he asked.

Indigo eyes widened and, little by little, the smile returned. "Yeah," he said quietly, looking at his folded hands. "Sometimes you do."

And then Alfred had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a cat that chose that particular moment as a fucking amazing time to bolt across the middle of the street.

It was the shit like this, however, that he did not enjoy dealing with as it came to him.

Shit like this he would be glad to spend the rest of his life avidly avoiding.

Heart pounding in his chest, eyes wide and knuckles white from how tight he was gripping the steering wheel, Alfred could barely breathe. The two men sat wide-eyed in a stagnant silence. Then when a tightness formed in his chest the lawyer suddenly remembered that breathing was a pretty cool habit to form and he exhaled in a heavy whoosh of breath, vision darkening around the edges momentarily. He spared the other a glance; his face was blanched, eyes saucer-like and he was after arching forward to peer over the front end of the Benz.

"Did you kill it?" Matthew asked, voice a weak whisper.

"I-I don't _think _I did," replied the lawyer.

Matthew gave him a hard smack on the shoulder. He flinched. "Get out and _check,_" he hissed, squirming in his seat and looking once more over the front end. Neither of them could see if the cat was sitting on the side of the road. "I swear Alfred, if we pull away and there are cat brains all over the road I will not be happy; we cannot just leave a dead cat in the middle of the road, Alfred. We just cannot do that; that might have been some crazy old lady's only friend and if we squat her only friend into the pavement and we don't do anything and she finds out we might as well just nominate each other for worst global citizen of the year and if one of us wins we can share the fucking trophy."

While there was a chance if there were any war criminals up for that particular award they would make for stiff competition, Alfred was certain they had this award in the bag if there was a dead feline on the ground.

A flaw, however, in the logic made itself known. He frowned. "How will she find out we flattened her cat into a furry flapjack?" he demanded. "That has to be some serious voodoo there, man."

"Cameras, dude, _cameras_!" Matthew exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "For all we know, that little bastard could have some sort of high-tech spy camera attached to its collar and its owner - that crazy old cat lady - could be some sort of FBI agent utilizing the beast for some major undercover operation involving a large-scale drug bust an underage prostitution ring and-" he froze mid-sentence, eyes globular.

Alfred could feel his own eyes widening as he watched his boyfriend's reaction to his own imagination - which was clearly after derailing into a complete and total train wreck like none other. He wasn't entirely worried about a potential carcass on their hands; now he was just worried about what might have been left of a clearly dwindling pot of sanity.

"Oh my God," he whispered, positively horrified. "_What have we done Alfred?_"

And so now he was certifiably delusional; Jones was openly considering calling up McKnight and asking him to do a psychiatric assessment to just get it over with.

"Or," Matthew offered, seemingly having calmed down within a matter of seconds, "she might have been watching from the window like some kind of neighbourhood creep."

_Oh for the love of_- Alfred just slammed his head down on the steering column.

Repeatedly.

Looking in the rear view mirror - there were no cars behind them - and then looking to the clock on the dashboard - they still had twenty minutes, which wasn't anything to worry over - he heaved a sigh, throwing open the driver's door and getting out. His gut felt like a leaded weight and he swore to God that if there was a dead cat caught in his front tire, he was going to steal the award for worst global citizen of the year and get some good, strong sedatives for the mentally deranged … _thing _… sat next to him.

Crouching down, one hand on the vibrating bonnet, Alfred looked under the body and let out a sigh, head drooping. There was nothing there. No bloody smear of cuddly animal. He ran a hand down over his face and then stood, resting his weight forward on the front of the car. Giving Matthew a smile, he gave the worried man a thumbs-up and laughed when his shoulders sagged with relief.

When he crawled back into the driver's seat, he put the car back in gear and slumped a little as he raked his hands through his hair. "Nomination terminated," he said.

Matthew held out his fist and they rapped knuckles, both men wearing similar, victorious expressions.

The day could no longer be deemed a total waste by either of them - or at least by Matthew and, from the way things were going, the day was already close to the bottom of the downhill slope. Or at least that was the way it came across as to Jones.

(He was still debating those sedatives for his partner though.)

Looking over to the other, he bit down on his lower lip as he watched him settle back into leather seat, shutting his eyes once he had finished fiddling around with the volume of the stereo; his iPod was hooked up to it, playing some singer Alfred had never heard until that moment. Some guy singing in a British accent over a catchy acoustic guitar about the welfare state and how kids could no longer be trusted and how Margaret Thatcher fucked everyone over in the new generation.

There were times, Alfred would admit, that he couldn't help but question just how much of a potential anarchist he was dealing with. Or maybe not so much 'potential anarchist' as 'full-blown anarchist'.

Not that he minded, really; it was only the times that he caught himself thinking about what if there was ever a riot in NYC oh shit fuck no Matthew, Gilbert and Mathias would probably be the ones after starting it, the lot of crazy fuckers, that he found himself worrying.

Sometimes he wondered just what it was that possessed his boyfriend to hang out with those people in the first place, or what possessed them to hang out with him.

And then that turned to wondering what the hell had done it for him in the first place, which would only end up bringing him full-circle…

When he almost ran a red light Alfred decided it would be the decision of a wise man _to stop thinking for a few goddamn minutes _and to actually _concentrate on the fucking road, you goddamn retard panda are you trying to kill us or something?_

God, he had commented while trying to keep the smile off of his face as he reversed back over the white block at the end of the corner, you're so fucking eloquent it hurts.

Sitting in a comfortable silence from the scene of the incident with the Cat That Had Used Up One of its Nine Lives and the I Tend to Run Red Lights When I'm Thinking When I Should Be Driving! mishap until they pulled up outside a quaint little building on the outskirts of Manhattan, it was just a little after seven by the time they got there; and five minutes before they needed to be. The lawyer felt a sense of relief upon seeing the place; he had only been going by reviews left by other people that had gone there, the description he had read online and, of course, the menu. What they had come across was a lovely spot; it had a beautiful view of the water and, Alfred noted as he pulled onto the side of the road, fantastic parking spaces.

Excellent street parking was always a winner in his books.

Glancing in the side mirror before getting out (the last thing he needed was for a kamikaze dump truck to come barrelling up the road as if the apocalypse was at its rear bumper and take the door off the car. Or turn him into a big red smear up through the center lane, but it would really suck if something happened to the Benz), Alfred threw the door open and stretched as he set his feet down on the pavement, glancing over his shoulder when he heard the other door creak open and then shut softly, the car rocking a little as Matthew bumped his backside off the door to make sure it was closed.

They headed towards the establishment, Alfred with his hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket and Matthew with his in the back pockets of his black jeans - he wore now the same outfit he had worn to the art gallery almost three weeks ago. When he had told him to put on something nice, and then suggested for him to wear that particular outfit, the look he had gotten in return had been hilarious. That 'Did you fall into a vat of nuclear waste and grow another head and a few extra arms?' sort of look.

Walking into the building behind Matthew, catching the door that was held out for him, he smiled a little as the other's eyes widened and he looked back over his shoulder, jaw loose.

"Y-You-"

Alfred laughed as he shut his jaw, pushing it upwards with a single finger, shaking his head a little. "Yes, I am taking you out to dinner," he said, grin expanding as he took in his expression. His eyes were glassy and his mouth had dropped open again, cheeks rapidly colouring as he wrung his hands together.

"Why, though?" he asked, stepping aside as a couple left the building, the pair talking and laughing quietly amongst themselves. Matthew's eyes followed the momentary distraction and Alfred seized that opportunity to evade his question to turn and talk to a waiter.

The man, dressed in a sleek white shirt, black trousers and wearing a little black bowtie and a pair of black gloves to match, gave him a pleasant smile. "Good evening, Sir," he said, voice smooth. There was an accent underlying his speech, but it was one Jones couldn't place. Greek, possibly? Turkish? He couldn't say. "How may I help you?"

"Reservation for two under Jones," he said, watching as the waiter nodded before looking to a book before him, finger running down along the page before settling on a name.

"Here it is," he said with a smile, looking up and then between the two men, eyes lingering on Matthew. Alfred followed his gaze for a moment, eyeing him as well - the Canadian was occupying himself with peering at the Koi Fish and Snapping Turtles they kept in a decorative stone pond. He had his hands on his thighs and was crouched a little as he peered into the waters, a tiny smile on his face.

"Will you two gentlemen follow me?" Alfred looked away from the other, starting a little; he hadn't noticed that the waiter had moved, two menus in hand. He smiled knowingly, and Al felt his cheeks warm considerably.

Tagging alongside the water, Alfred watched from the corner of his eye as Matthew followed behind him and looked about with a muted awe as he gnawed on his lower lip. Lagging behind but keeping the waiter in his line of sight - they were being taken towards the back, where the more private tables were kept, usually those for either business meetings, quiet dinners and couples - he lightly nudged his companion in the ribs, grinning when he twitched.

"And we're going out to dinner just because we can," he murmured softly, giving his hand a discreet squeeze and loving the way his eyes lit up, how his smile became a little freer around the edges and that subtle way he pressed closer.

Not quite caring about whether they were in public or not - he was finally beginning to give up caring about that little hindrance that had been holding onto him - he pressed a short kiss to his cheek, chuckling at the way pale cheeks darkened.

"Thanks," Mattie murmured in a way that bordered on bashful.

Uncertain as to why he was being thanked, he didn't reply; just gave his hand another squeeze in return.

Sitting down at the table they were led to, Alfred draped his bomber jacket over the back of the chair before accepting a menu, thanking the waiter as he left them to it for the time being. Settling in across from him Matthew hesitantly opened the menu apparently awaiting some sort of explosion by doing so.

Watching with a growing amusement the various expressions passing over his partner's face as he went through the menu, he tried not to laugh. "Something wrong?" he asked teasingly.

Matthew squirmed, looking away and focusing with a great deal of embarrassment on the back of a man's balding head; the way the light was glinting off of it made it look like a lamp in its own right. "Would you object if I just stuck to a salad and a small glass of water?"

He snorted. "Yes, actually, I would."

Squirming even more, he had his hands out of eyeshot but Jones knew - he damn well _knew _- that he was wringing them raw. Reaching his hand under the surface of the table, he grabbed hold of them, trying not to sigh when he found he was right. Spindly fingers entwined with his, he gave the hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "The menu is so damn expensive," he mumbled incoherently, still not looking directly at the older man. "Or maybe I'll just get a three course meal involving three different types of cheesecake."

Now that was an idea. But it was still an idea he wasn't going to go along with; Alfred shook his head. "As awesome as that sounds, you're getting actual food," he instructed. "We're here to enjoy ourselves, not worry about the prices on the menu."

Expression faltering, he wavered but then agreed, ducking his head. "Okay, okay," he conceded. "I'll deal with it."

Pulling his hand away, Alfred watched him for a moment longer before turning his gaze back to his menu; he had already decided on his meal - some kind of sautéed salmon, pasta-like side dish and fancy salad. As he looked through the prices of the different meals, he glanced back up to Matthew, wondering just how often he had gone out like this before. Wondering about it made him feel like a prick - well, he had to admit, there were times when he really _was _a prick. But, no, seriously; how often, before now, had he gone out to a fancy restaurant as such for a dinner that was bound to be expensive? The look he wore was a nervous, tentative one as he slowly looked through the menu, turning a page forward and then turning back.

On the list the majority of the meals ranged between thirty and forty dollars - a far cry from the easy little meals the artist usually made for himself (even though he had money now, money that he could actually spend on whatever he wanted without worrying about not having anything left), he still insisted, for the most part, on eating Kraft Dinner, cheap meats that had been marked down to at least a quarter of their original price by the butcher's in the meat department, tinned fruit 'because the real stuff goes bad too fast and costs too much' and bagels.

Holy fuck the bagels he could put away in the run of a week was _inhuman. _

While he knew Matthew had enjoyed the first few weeks or so of living in a place with reliable appliances, a reduced rent every month and a little extra money to his name each pay, by indulging in richer, better foods, he also knew he suffered from some ridiculous guilt for doing so. At first the guilt wasn't a conscious thing. But then, as if he realized what he had done - the immediate change from crappy, cheap foods to expensive ones - he went back to the way he used to buy groceries, only getting the more costly things for every now and again; nice little indulgences, he called them.

(Which was why, more often than not, Alfred tried to coax him into staying at his place to have meals because then he knew he was eating properly and that there was nothing for him to worry about.)

It was a wonder he hadn't caught onto it by now. Or maybe he had and he happened to be good at playing oblivious.

Ordering their food sometime later when the waiter returned - and Alfred ordered a bottle of wine, grinning when Matthew laughed and muttered beneath his breath, '_of course_' - the two stayed in a relative, companionable silence. Sat there across from Jones, he seemed to be content enough. Maybe it had to do with the nap he had had in the afternoon or maybe something altogether different, but he didn't seem to be nearly as tired or down. His eyes were shining instead of glazed and dull, much more alive and alert, and there was a tiny smile on the corners of his mouth as he looked around with a sort of awe. Alfred felt his own smile beginning to grow once more and, when Matthew glanced over, the Canadian's cheeks reddened and his grin turned sheepish.

"What?" he asked.

Alfred shrugged. "Nothin'," he hummed, tilting his head a little to the side. He was mimicked by the other, smile turning into a smirk. He chuckled. "It's just nice to see you smiling again. It sucks when you go all doom and gloom on me."

Matthew screwed up his nose, but this time - unlike on their way over - his smile did not fall; his body didn't sag. "I 'unno," he said quietly, pressing forward and resting his wrists on the table. "I do feel a bit better. I mean, it's still there and all - well, it's never gone away, that's for sure - but I don't feel as bad. Like, my head feels lighter; clearer."

"Could've been because you've been keeping to yourself for the past week, more or less," Alfred commented. "I mean, we barely talked except for when I came over and made sure you were eating. And I'm sorry I couldn't stick around more, but Chris wanted me to sit in and oversee the case with Pavel - which I would have been doing anyway - and the extra bit of reading and volunteering I've had to do-"

"Don't apologize, Alfred," he cut in, shaking his head. His errant curl bobbed from the sudden movement. "You're simply doing your job and things you enjoy. Who am I to stop you from doing that? I'd be a dick."

He swallowed thickly, not wanting to test those waters. "A-And I mean, even Mathias called me once or twice, the first time asking if I was holding you hostage for my devious, voracious sexual appetites. Which does sound awfully tempting-" Matthew made a choked noise, cheeks turning scarlet "-but then he called again two days ago, asking if you were going to be alright. I mean, as appealing as it is, you can't just hole yourself up. People start to worry, Pet. That makes things worse and I _hate_ seeing you unhappy and knowing at the same time that there's absolutely nothing I can do to make it better."

Falling silent, he rubbed the back of his neck and then sat back as the waiter approached with their bottle of wine and two glasses upon a tray, already filled. He set the bottle down on the black surface of the table - the place had a rather monochromatic layout - and then put down a glass for each of them. "Here you are, sirs," said the waiter. "Your dinner should be along within the next twenty to thirty minutes; one of the men in the kitchen had to go out and get something they were after running out of."

Thanking the man - he couldn't have been any older than Matthew - the lawyer turned back to the other to find him smiling as he sipped his wine, watching him over the rims of his glasses.

Alfred picked up his glass and swirled the red contents around a little. It was Bordeaux. "Any good?" he asked.

Matt nodded. "Yeah, it's pretty nice," he commented. "I mean, I'm not a big wine drinker, but it doesn't have that gross bitter taste. You're only allowed to have one glass by the way; you are driving, after all."

Laughter. "I had no intention of having more than one glass," he reassured. "I might have done that a while ago, but no. I think I've figured out for the better."

"Maybe all those smacks to the head have straightened you up a bit, Princess," Mattie snickered around the mouth of his glass.

If they weren't out in public, Alfred would have thrown one of the napkins at his face. Instead, choosing to behave as though he were as civilized as they got, he tentatively sipped his wine and gave a light hum; he was right, the wine was good. Almost sweet in a way. Never one for wine, he didn't know what to expect when it came to judging the taste.

As long as it didn't taste like horse piss, then he didn't entirely care.

"You're right," Matthew murmured suddenly, hand falling from the glass and resting on the table. He was looking at the surface, expression despondent and thoughtful all at once.

"Right?" He frowned, setting down his glass. "About what?"

"What you said a little while ago," he said, "about me holing myself up; staying away from everyone when I get like this. You're right. I do, and it's not healthy. But it's just so much easier than dealing with people constantly asking me if I'm okay. Like, I find it hard enough to talk about how I'm feeling half of the time, and it's just worse when I'm like … _this._ When I first started seeing McKnight, I wouldn't even talk to him. It was almost after three months of weekly sessions that we progressed beyond the whole 'oh hey how's your day going?' and I told him something more than my name, age and where I was from."

Licking at his lips and tasting wine on them still, Alfred nodded, encouraging him to go further; as far as he wanted to. Needed to.

He seemed to catch onto it. Sinking back in his seat, he frowned and then rubbed at the spot between his eyebrows. "I know it's ridiculous," Matthew said, "but, like, I just can't help it. Closing myself off from everyone is just how I deal with things. Sure it doesn't clear my head right away because I'm the kind of person that dwells on things for days on end, but it does work better than immediately talking about what's wrong. Eventually."

"Even if it isn't healthy, I guess it _is_ a way to deal," Alfred sighed. "I'm not trying to justify your … your _means _of coping, if you wanna call 'em that, but it's easy to see why it's a more desirable way to put up with shit."

Laughing quietly and shaking his head as he did, Matthew picked his wine back up and sipped it, shutting his eyes as he did. When he set the glass back down, he gave the other a light smile before settling back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "It's a hard habit to break out of once you're settled into it."

Alfred just nodded, finger running along the rim of his glass, eyes focusing on the young man across from him before he pulled them away to focus on some of the other people sitting around. Some of them were dining, others were chatting the way they were. And there were a handful of people that weren't even talking at all; even from a distance he could feel the awkwardness emanating from them. Sure it didn't bother him to sit in silence with Matthew but that was because neither of them understood an awkward silence. Well, at least they hadn't since late January.

Before that, any sort of silence was a bad thing that had made him want to pluck his hairs out from stress.

Apparently there were other people that couldn't have periods of silence between them without feeling awkward, which he did not entirely understand; how could you find a reason to be intimate - a quiet dinner alone, curling up with one another, anything - with someone else when you couldn't even sit in silence for a few minutes without starting to squirm? What kind of friendship or relationship was that?

Then he let out a yelp, jerking his knee upward when a shoed-foot collided with his shin.

"Jesus, Matthew!" he whined, kicking back just as hard. "The fuck was that for, you dickface?"

Matthew shrugged nonchalantly. "I don't know," he hummed. "Just felt like it."

Kicking him in return, he huffed childishly, smirking when Matthew bit his lip with a grimace. "Payback's a bitch," Alfred sniggered, wincing with a quiet curse and clenching his hand into a fist when both of his boyfriend's feet collided with his shins, remitting little to no mercy. Indigo eyes hardened, his smile was haughty and, before he had a chance to retaliate from the double-blow, he landed another kick on his shin.

This meant _war._

By the time the waiter got to their table with the food they had ordered, Alfred was sure his legs were heavily bruised and were only a few more kicks away from bleeding. Matthew, on the other hand, looked to be in a mild amount of pain as he thanked the waiter when he set a steaming plate of cooked oriental vegetables with little pieces of fruit, some odd-looking pasta that both looked and smelled fantastic and a small porterhouse steak garnished with some sort of sauce and diced mushrooms.

Alfred looked down to his own plate of salmon when the waiter left, over to what Matthew was cutting primly, and then puffed his cheeks spitefully. While his dinner looked wonderful - sautéed salmon garnished with limes and chives, fettuccini alfredo (both men had cackled a little when he had ordered it), and a nice little garden salad - for some reason the steak looked fantastic and he might have been a little bit jealous.

The artist was pouring himself some more wine when he glanced over to the lawyer, arching an eyebrow then smiling a little when he saw how he was eyeing the steak on his plate. "You are such a grub," Mattie murmured, laughing as the older man's cheeks flushed crimson as he jammed a piece of salmon in his mouth. Cutting off a small portion of his steak, he dropped it on Alfred's plate.

Blue eyes that were always alight with something neither of them understood somehow grew brighter and he gently nudged Matthew's ankle with his foot. "You are just too wonderful," he cooed, the grin on his face expanding. "You are just _too_ good to me."

If Alfred thought he was being 'too good' for him by giving him a little piece of his dinner…

"Shit," he muttered, "I wonder what you would do if I gave you the whole damn steak."

Alfred gave him a sly wink before licking his lips sinuously. He plopped a piece of carrot down on his lower lip and bit of the very tip of it before sucking it slowly into his mouth.

Oh.

Pale cheeks flushed a dark, hot shade of red.

_Oh._

Matthew stared at the medium-rare meat on his plate, mouth going more arid than the Nevada Desert during a dry spell, and he seriously considered giving it to him because the way that look made his stomach coil felt too good to be denied.

However, he was properly hungry for the first time in days and there was no way he was forking over what was on his plate to the gluttonous little demon seated across from him.

Alfred laughed at the range of conflicting emotions on his lover's face before cutting up a piece of salmon. Poor thing; he didn't know what he wanted to do- Oh, never mind. He did know; he had sliced off one of the ends of the steak and had stuffed it, very unceremoniously and with little to no social grace, into his mouth and glared at him with a corner of his mouth puffed out from the food. There would be no living with him.

Reaching across the table and grabbing the bottle of wine, he uncorked it and topped off Matthew's glass before closing it again. Instead of placing it on the table, he set it down under his chair and out of sight.

"Thanks," he said. "But, uh, what are you doing with it down there?"

"We're saving the rest of it for _later_," he hummed, smiling in a way that felt a little more devious than what it actually was; he just wanted to have some for later on, considering he was still nursing the only glass he was permitted until they got home. "We can finish it off when we get back to my place."

Matthew nodded. "Sounds good to me," he chirped.

Alfred's gaze lingered on him for a moment as he returned to eating, oblivious to the look he was being given by his boyfriend, and he grinned. While he was no overly romantic guy - he did have his moments, this he would willingly admit to - there were some things he knew wine went well with.

There were some things in this life that wine went _very _well with.

It was when the place was closing up - some two hours later - that they decided to go and pay, the bottle of wine tucked away in a bag given to them by the waiter.

He didn't know why they had stayed as long as they did, alternating between talking and laughing, watching couples in the main area converse and even as some of them danced; it was that sort of restaurant, modelled after the places they had in the forties with live bands and singers. While the low music they played came from over a music system and no longer by a dedicated house band, it was still good.

They had watched the sparse couples dancing and, catching the way Matthew had been looking on, Alfred felt a nervous warmth fill him as he studied how his boyfriend sat there with an expression that bordered on envy. Without even thinking he had offered to him to go down and dance. And the guy's reaction was golden: he spluttered as his face went beet red and then shied away, shaking his head vehemently.

'I don't dance' was his excuse and then they left it on that as Matthew had promptly switched the topic to that was entirely unrelated and nothing short of mundane: babbling about polar bears and melting ice caps, apparently, made for a good 'my boyfriend wants to dance with me' topic avoider.

_A shame_, he had thought wistfully as he had listened with some mild amusement, because he really had wanted to go down there and dance with him.

Internally he shrugged it off; to each their own.

(And when they got back to his place, he learned that Matthew was just fine at dancing. The moment they were in through the door, shoes off and out of the porch, Alfred wordlessly pulled him close and slid an arm around his waist while taking hold of a pale, delicate hand and guiding them in a lazily turning circle.)

(Matthew's face was then introduced to every shade of red in the colour spectrum but he did not pull away - not once; he didn't even attempt it because he immediately sank into the hold on him and stayed there, his free arm draped around his broad shoulders.)

Doesn't dance?

From the way he was pressed against him, grinning with a dumbstruck sort of look on his lips and in his eyes, that whole 'I don't dance' statement was nothing but a little homespun garbage.

Alfred called bullshit on this, but he said nothing of it; just spun them in a slow circle and ignored everything around them; focused exclusively on the messy little creation of humanity in his arms. The messy little creation whose world he had turned inside-out, upside-down and all-in-all different in every which way - and the same could be said for the other way around.

(It felt, and was, perfect in every sense of the word and he hoped time had stopped for at least a little while because it sure did feel like it.)

When rotating in the one spot, accompanied by Alfred's soft humming into Matthew's hair, became too much, they just flopped on the floor and lay there in the semi-darkness. The Albertan placed his head on his stomach and Al just lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling he couldn't see. The only source of illumination in his apartment was the lights of the city that shone through the windows and it left the room with an iridescent glow of pale lights and the occasional smattering of colour casting its halo over pieces of furniture and themselves.

Fingers carding through curly blonde locks that were silky thanks to his diligent scrubbing, he secretly marvelled at the softness before Matthew moved to sit up, suspending his weight over the prone lawyer, grinning down at him; even in the near dark Alfred could see the expression as clear as day.

Mouth going bone dry, he licked at his lips and vaguely wondered why his breathing had grown so shallow all of a sudden; it couldn't have anything to do with their proximity because they had been closer than this before. Unless it was the single glass of wine he had consumed choosing now to make itself known.

But that wasn't it; wasn't even _close_ to what it was.

His smaller lover had moved to straddle him, fingers running along his neck, down his skin and settling at where his tie was. Deft fingers loosened the accessory, removed it altogether and gently placed it on the floor. His stomach was in a pleasant knot and Matthew's weight felt so incredible that he wanted to stay where they were. Again he licked at his lips because they felt positively seared. Their dryness and the warmth had nothing to do with the tiny bit of wine he had consumed.

He knew what this was - why he felt like his nerve endings were after being set ablaze; why each tentative touch of Matthew's fingertips, fingertips that were mapping out each little bit of revealed skin with a caution and tenderness that made him shiver, caused his skin to warm pleasantly.

He knew what is was that he felt was simply mirroring the desire he had felt for the longest while - a desire he had kept at bay for as long as possible because he hadn't wanted to push anything on his lover and also because he wasn't ready.

Or at least he thought he wasn't ready; with Matthew on him (his lips, too), he knew this was no longer the case. What he felt was a perfect reflection of what the other felt; what the other wanted. The eyes that bore into him, the only part of Matt that he could really distinguish, spoke that need in volumes.

Alfred knew quite well what it was that he wanted, and he also understood the fact that the living room floor wasn't exactly the greatest place to have it.

It was unsurprising that Matthew seemed to think this, too.

"C'mon," he breathed, lips by his ear. The warmth of his breath - hot and smelling vaguely of the sweet wine they had drunk - caused a shiver of want to ripple through him and he sat up the best he could, running his trembling fingers down a soft cheek. Matthew was watching him closely, studying each reaction as they happened. "We should…" he stopped, swallowed and licked at his lips. "We should go upstairs, y'know?" Lips returned to his ear but this time they latched onto a spot of skin just below the lobe.

"That sounds like a good idea," Alfred murmured. He felt a hitching in his chest; the slightest sweat on his palms and he grinned giddily. Matthew laughed.

And it really _did_ sound like a good idea.

* * *

Eheheh HEY THERE EVERYONE! Hope you all liked the chapter! Don't worry; France will make his debut very soon!

Also, thought you should all know that there are only nine chapters left to this monstrosity. I honestly don't want this to end, ever, because I don't think I've ever enjoyed writing one single story so much, but welp. Nine more chapters and then that's it.

Thanks so much for all the reviews you guys leave. Like, honestly, I read and reread them countless time; I'm also trying to stop sucking less and I'm trying to reply to them more often! I always forget to, ahah. Everything means so much and just hdgsdkg

Lots of hugs and love for you all. -SQUISHES EVERYONE EVER-


	33. Chapter 33

**CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.**

Eleven rolled around before Matthew stirred, and when he moved for the first time after a solid eight hours of sleep, Alfred suddenly became Enemy of the State number one. Numero uno. The head honcho that needed to go. That needed to be nuked, flat-out disintegrated into itty-bitty atoms that were so goddamn itty-bitty that they would never be able to be split them.

_Ever._

Whimpering as pain flared up his lower back, all along his hips, pointedly in his bottom and festering right in the base of his spine, he sank down further into the mattress and pulled the blankets away from Alfred - _all_ of them - and bundled himself up, shivering a little; they had been previously wrapped around his waist, exposing his stomach and torso to a heatless, barren wasteland of an apartment. The room was cold, bitterly so, and because of it he felt sluggish. Even though the man beside him was suddenly blanket-less, nude body exposed to the icy temperature of the room, Jones did not stir; it would have been bad if he did, considering he was perched precariously upon the edge of the bed - one sudden movement or rolling the wrong way, and he would become part of the flooring.

And Matthew, feeling particularly grumpy (see: murderous) this murky Sunday morning where rain streamed down the wide floor-to-ceiling windows and the city was gray and dead, would have laughed himself sick as he hogged the center of the mattress.

(It really didn't help that his ass hurt. A lot.)

Curling in on himself, knees pressed to his chest, he rubbed a hand down over his face and, wrenching one arm out of the mess of blankets and pillows, he blindly groped along the top of the bedside table before locating his glasses. With them on, he looked blearily about the room, wincing at how suddenly everything was magically in high-def.

'_Better than television,_' he thought sardonically.

He lay there, still as ever, for another little while, hoping that would be enough to ease the pain - that it was just the initial stiffness of waking up that made it bad. He shifted, grimaced, and then stilled again. Not likely. As though sensing she were not the only one in the house awake, his vision was suddenly blocked by a fluffy white-and-black cat and he smiled as she nestled down in front of him, burying herself in between his stomach and thighs. She kneaded at his gut for a brief moment before deciding that his amount of squishy body fat was acceptable and, immediately, the feline began to purr.

Watching her caused a grin to spread across his face and he laughed quietly, moving his free hand to scratch at Oreo's tiny head. She purred pleasantly, the volume increasing the longer he scratched at her. It was nice, he decided. Growing up he had never had a pet.

Well, there was the budgie bird he had when he was seven, but the little bird had gotten out of her cage, vanished and then managed to get trapped in the attic where she turned into a feral monstrosity that swarmed the door the moment anyone tried to head up into the garret to get something down; which was a shame, considering that was where all the Christmas and Halloween decorations were stored.

'_The damn bird can't live forever,_' he remembered hearing his mother say scathingly to an exterminator she had hired to try and get rid of the psychotic bird (unsuccessfully, at that).

What neither of them had counted on was the bird surviving for almost five years in the dank, musty little upper story of their farmhouse.

Then, when they had come to New York after his mother had met Jason on some online dating site, he couldn't get a pet then, either, because of his mother's new boyfriend's severe animal dander allergies. As if being allergic to a few cats could be fatal, he had scoffed. He had hoped they could get a dog maybe; even something small, like a Cocker Spaniel or a Yorkshire Terrier. A miniature Collie, even. Hell, he would have settled for a tea-cup poodle if he had to - he just wanted a little animal to call his own. It would have made adjusting to a new city - a new country - a little bit easier. He had been there nearly four months before he had made any real friends, so an animal companion would have been gratefully appreciated.

But, of course, Jason happened to find a way to ruin things for him, whether it was intentional or not. It was what he used to do for a hobby or something.

Grumbling darkly to himself, Matthew sunk down as far as he could into the mattress, pulling the comforter and sheets tightly around his body. There was a slight stirring on the other side of the bed, Alfred murmured in his sleep incoherently, and if he focused in on it hard enough he could hear the radio in the kitchen still playing. Oreo was still purring as he scratched behind her ears, watching as she arched her head to the side, blocking out the majority of the noise coming from the radio with the loud, vibrating purrs. And then set of cat fangs ended up latched into his hand, the animal spluttered and snarled and a yelp left the young man as he recoiled away from the cat.

The bi-polar little _monster._

Sitting up despite the muscles screaming in his lower body, he scooped the animal up with no compassion and plopped her down on her owner, earning a sleepy grunt from the lawyer.

"She's _your_ little beast," Matthew hissed as he lifted his head sleepily, staring somewhat amazedly and very uncomprehendingly at his lover. Bright blue eyes were dull, their colour muted and flat. "_Take her_."

Saying nothing at first, he just stared at him with a confused look. Then: "Hnngh." Alfred's head flopped back down on the pillow as the animal curled up on his side, body splayed along his bare ribs and stomach, and within a matter of nanoseconds he was asleep once more. Bastard probably hadn't woken up in the first place.

Matthew groaned and let his head hit the pillow again, but this time he stayed facing his lover, watching the way his side rose and fell as he breathed deeply, still slumbering on and perfectly oblivious to the time of day. Sleep, Matthew had said more than once, was the perfect state of oblivion. Better than what any cheap (or expensive) pharmaceuticals could procure, even if sometimes he had needed those cheap (but they always ended up being the expensive ones) pharmaceuticals to get to sleep in the first place.

Looking on as Alfred lay there, solid despite the cold against his skin - save for his tiny, fuzzy, psychotic house pet quilt - it was obvious that he was the perfect example. He never had any trouble falling asleep. In fact, Matthew was a little bit envious of it. Sometimes they would get in bed and talk for a little while before going to sleep. Sometimes Matthew would lie there and listen as Alfred did all the talking, going on about something he had seen during the day that really stuck out to him; something he just couldn't get out of his head unless he told someone.

There were a lot of things, Matthew had quickly realized upon meeting him, that Alfred saw and dealt with that even he would never want to.

And oft times they crawled into bed without a word to one another, other than a simple exchange of 'goodnight's and 'love you's. They'd drop onto their respective sides of the bed and, before Matthew could even settle himself, his partner would be sound asleep, leaving the other to lie there for the better part of an hour impatiently seeking sleep and listening to his breathing. Sometimes he'd slide over to curl around him, other times he wouldn't. The nights where he was the one that fell asleep first were the ones where when the morning crawled around he would find Alfred wrapped around him like a protective blanket. It never, ever failed.

Reaching out from under the covers, he moved his arm across the space that separated them and trailed his fingers down over his back, touching the scratches he had left there. Some of them were only light - pale welts against sun-kissed skin. Others were an angry red that, if picked at, would leave small scars. A grimace crossed his face. Poor guy; he probably didn't know he had signed up for physical combat.

Or maybe that was just something he was accustomed to; scratched skin, bruises here and there. War wounds from the bedroom were probably nothing new to him.

Pressing his hand flat against his smooth, somewhat warm skin, Matthew let it rest there before exhaling slowly, blowing some of his hair out of his face. God, his skin felt so nice. Despite the lumps and abrasions he had inflicted, his skin was flawless. Deep and tanned; all the time he had spent hanging out in Central Park with Chris and Allan, just tossing a football back and forth had done wonders for him; the man had looked awful, sick and pale when he had returned from England. He rubbed his hand in a small circle, admiring the muscles and structure of his back. All he wanted to do now was go and curl himself around the lawyer; pull him as close as possible and kiss him senseless as he woke up. A smile began to form. Wouldn't that be a nice wake up? To come around to the scant light of day with lips teasingly trailing along his jaw and over his mouth. Matthew knew quite well he loved waking up to that sort of greeting; in fact, it was one of his favourites. Shifting closer and moving his hand from his back to his bare side and running it along him, he considered it for a moment.

Instead, he opted for the better wake-up call - the one Alfred so-rightfully deserved:

He shoved him out of the bed.

Hitting the floor with a heavy thump and a sharp yowl leaving the cat - Matthew assumed his lover's dead weight had landed on the demon - there was no immediate reaction. A low groan came from the heap of human body parts of the floor, a prolonged, pained sound. Then Alfred sat up, looking over the side of the bed at him, blinking sluggishly. He looked around with a dazed expression, ran a hand through his hair as he licked his lips and then cracked his neck.

"Wha'ppened? Wassat?" He turned sleepy eyes to the man still lying in bed, beseeching him for an answer. Oreo was back up on the bed within a matter of moments, plodding down to the foot of it. She kneaded a spot at the mattress before curling up.

"I don't understand gibberish," muttered Matthew blackly as he rolled over onto his other side, facing away from the sleep-stunned man.

A groan sounded out from Alfred and then the mattress dipped heavily as he threw himself back down on it. Sliding beneath the blankets, cold skin - his back and side had been deceptively warm - came in contact with his own blanket-insulated flesh, drawing a hissed curse from him.

"Fuck, Alfred," he snarled, reaching back and swatting at the side of his head. "Don't touch me; you're fucking _freezing _and you're gonna make me cold, too. Screw off."

"Mm, if you hadn'ta taken all th'blankets, then this wouldn't be a probl'm," Alfred murmured against his bare shoulder, curling around him as close as he could get, moulding their bodies together as he let out a sleepy yawn. "'M I right? 'Course 'm right."

Matthew just muttered sulkily beneath his breath, accepting the frigid embrace that was slowly but surely turning warmer. Strong arms were anchored around his waist and within moments their legs were tangled together. Hips pressed flat against him and he winced with a slightly aggrieved whine.

Lifting his head and peering down at the buried Canuck, Jones was frowning. "Hey, s'wrong?" he asked, propping himself up on an elbow. "Somethin' botherin' you?"

"You did this to me," Mattie grumbled beneath his breath, shoving his face down in a pillow. "You and your fucking dick did this to me."

Spluttering, Alfred slid his hand beneath his down turned cheek and forced Matthew to look up at him. "My dick and I did _what_ to you?"

Matthew let out a full-on whine before smacking his hand away. Slamming his face back down in the pillows, he took as much of the blankets as possible and muttered, "My bum hurts too much to even be alive right now."

Much to his dismay (and imminent, mounting irritation), his lover burst out laughing and he sat upright, the sparse blankets he had managed to snare wrapped around his bare waist. "Oh, you poor thing," he snickered, messing his hair. "Want some pain killers? I might have a bit of codeine left over from when I fucked my back up."

"Two, please," Matthew murmured, running a hand through his hair. "I … don't remember it hurting this much last time around. I really, really don't."

A kiss was pressed to his cheek and he hummed, feeling some of the initial morning grouchiness whittling away gradually. Goddamn him for making everything feel like it was going to be all sunshine and roses when he was sore and the world outside was dreary and rain-sodden. He had absolutely no right. "Maybe since it's been a while, and … well, the last goin' off we weren't a hundred percent _gentle_ with one another."

Recalling the way Alfred had had him pressed down into the mattress, face buried in the pillow and the blankets clenched in his fingers like the only anchor he could possibly find for himself as the lawyer had draped himself over him from behind, murmuring sweet, sexy little nothings, he was completely right. They had gotten a little bit rough - he had the small, circular bruises on his hips to prove it. It had been incredible, though; not to mention it had been so long - too long, actually - since someone had taken control of anything like that. Alfred had needed a little warming up to it at first, but after what had to be their third time the American was having absolutely no qualms with somewhat dominating things. Like that, for instance. Matthew's face flushed bright pink and he grinned sheepishly.

It was completely worth the dire pain in his backside, now that he thought of it.

They lay motionless beside one another for a little while longer; the stillness kept any discomfort from making itself known. Finally, the older man moved with a quiet groan. His movements were reluctant as he arched, stretching tiredly. The mattress rose up a little as Alfred got off of it, and then stood there for a moment, hands on his hips as he looked out the ran-slicked windows. A frown crossed his face and he sighed, head falling back for a brief moment between his shoulder blades. Matthew watched as the lawyer snatched up a pair of boxers from the floor and tugged them on. Scratching his lower back, he stretched, arms reaching well up over his head as he rose up onto his tiptoes and, from where he was, Matthew huffed before throwing a pillow at him.

Launching the pillow back at the prone young man, he scowled. "What was that for?"

"For killing the nice view I had of your ass, y'goddamn hoser."

"… Did you just call me a hoser?"

"Well-"

"Oh my God, you called me a _fooking hoser, eh._"

"Shut _up, _you _bastard_-"

"Now, now, eh, that's not very nice, eh!"

"Say one more word, and I will _**end you**__._"

Silence.

Alfred smirked; the muscle beneath Matthew's right eye twitched dangerously.

"One word _aboot _what?"

Better and easier than a declaration of war. All the pillows on the bed (except for one; he still needed to keep at least one for himself, right?) made a gradual flight across the room at the American who decided to flee and cower in the bathroom. It would be safer in there by far.

"You can run, but you can't hide in there forever!" Matthew bellowed after him.

"Yes I can!"

"No, you can't!"

"Yes I can, so go and fuck yourself!"

"I would but my ass is too sore!"

"Whoa, whoa, hold your shit for a second, babe." Silence hung in the air for a moment before Alfred poked his head back out the door. "That, and I would like to watch. So don't do anything like that without me here."

The remaining pillow struck him straight in the face.

Laughing as the red-cheeked American ducked his head back into the room, a smattering of curses leaving him, Matthew let his head hit the mattress, grimaced, and then folded his arms and set his head down on top of them. Stretching out along the covers, arms draped over his head and the sheets barely covering him now, he looked in the direction of the windows and watched as the rain slid in thick rivulets over the glass. It came down in torrents outside, dousing the city and making the day out to be a dreary one. From where he lay he could hear the way the wind was whipping around the building, trying to whittle its way into the nooks and crannies of the construction. It wouldn't get in no matter how hard it tried, thankfully, but it was enough to depress him a little.

Days like this were the ones that made him want to stay in bed until his body sagged and turned into a useless sack of jellied muscles. Made him want to bury his head beneath a pillow, put on some music and refuse to acknowledge anything beyond the walls of his secure little world. If it weren't for the fact that he was with Alfred - if this had been last year, he would have done just that. Would have taken his medications, crawled into bed and stayed there, refusing to move a muscle and he would have slept on and off for the duration of the day (it still sounded like a good idea).

Bundling the blankets up over his mouth, he inhaled deeply and shut his eyes, faintly smelling Alfred's cologne off of them - it managed to get everywhere; he wore so much of it. A smile curled his lips despite the grimness of the world outside and the way it hung so heavily over him, looming like a spectre. Things were so different now; sometimes he didn't know whether to believe everything was happening the way it was and that it wasn't simply some sort of extensive, lucid dream.

Pills had caused lucid dreaming before. This could be an effect of them, right?

He shifted briefly, tears of agony sprung to his eyes and he decided that there was no fucking way it was a goddamn dream.

He went back to watching the rain because, as Alfred got him his pain killers and did whatever it was that was taking him so long, there was nothing else for him to do other than contemplate what the mindless masses below them were possibly doing. Dodging in and under the overhangs of stores, trying their damnedest not to get wet. Scurrying like the little rats some of them were - the bankers, the CEOs, the people that didn't give a shit when their shit-giving would matter - to try and keep themselves from getting wet. Matthew fumed to himself. Rainy days did such terrible things to him; they managed to warp him into a veritable monster of sorts.

Thank God it was Sunday and he didn't have to work. Working in the warehouse on a rainy day was even worse than the rainy day itself; the roof was leaking in some sections, it was perpetually cold and damp, and that was when the rats scurried in to get out of the inclement weather. Oh, the rats he could see on a rainy day. The thought of it made his stomach churn and he pulled the blankets back up over him as he turned onto his side, still facing the soaked windows.

"Here, I got you an aspirin and some codeine."

Glancing up, he gave Alfred a half-smile before sitting up slowly, bending forward a bit as he folded his legs. "Thanks," he murmured, popping back the two pills and draining the water. Up until then he hadn't realized how pasty his mouth was, or how chapped his lips were. Sighing when the water was gone, he scooted over as Alfred crawled back in to huddle beneath the covers with him.

Eyes straying back to the messy world outside, he rolled them and then turned over to face Alfred. The man's eyes were partially shut and, when he saw the way Matthew was facing, they reopened. Lips brushed against his forehead, the Canadian smiled a little and then made a rolling gesture with one of his fingers. "Turn around," said the artist. Jones scrutinized him; puffing his cheeks, he squirmed a little. "Please?"

Alfred chuckled lowly and slowly rotated to face the other way. Sliding up a little and grabbing one of the pillows that had been returned to the bed, he tucked it under his head and curled himself around his partner's body, pressing as close as possible and smiling as hands sought his and laced their fingers together. Matthew hummed against the back of his neck, kissing the top of his spine before resting his cheek sleepily against his shoulder. Al lay silent and without complaint, apparently complaisant to be held.

Pressing his forehead down against the man's shoulder, a yawn left him and he sighed. "You're awfully comfy," Matthew murmured drowsily into his bare skin. "Too comfy." Soft laughter followed his words.

Matthew gave a low hum, shutting his eyes against the dull natural light filling the room; it suddenly seemed a lot brighter in there. Maybe the sun was finally starting to break through the clouds? Peering over his shoulder, back in the direction of the windows, he grimaced when he saw that the rain was actually hitting the windows even harder than before. Deceptive. He turned back to the much more comforting body in front of him.

Allowing himself to be held without any complaint, Alfred just lay there and Matthew curled in close again, trying to ignore the beating of the rain on the windows. It was a steady thrumming sound, heavy droplets splattering noisily. The noise was filling his ears no matter how hard he tried to push it away; an utter cacophony. 'Harmonious dissonance' was what Lars used to call it (now that he thought of it, he was quite certain that Lars had taken the name of a Castlevania game and warped it to his own uses. There were times when the Dutchman was fairly unoriginal).

Content to lie there with his thoughts as he pressed close against the other, Matthew shifted with a sigh and then shut his eyes against the dreariness of the weather. The water was hitting the glass in heavy-sounding pellets and he couldn't help but truly hope the Wall Street execs were more or less drowning in the torrential rainfall.

There was a slight stirring. "What if we just stayed in bed for the rest of the day?" Al offered, peering back a little to watch the younger man behind him. Matthew re-opened his eyes when he felt the movement of his partner and he was faced with a million-watt grin, felt his heart melt a little, and then he grumbled and curled in closer. "I mean, I'm expecting a call later on this afternoon, so I can't actually go anywhere. And you're not working. So, you should just stay here with me for the day and we can stay in bed because I've barely seen you over the past week or so and I kinda missed you a little so it would be nice if-"

"Stop trying to convince me," Matthew said, loosening his hand from the grip on it to move it up to cover Al's mouth. Blue eyes widened; he grinned. "You don't need to convince me to stay over, Princess. It was my intention to stay here for the rest of the day, whether it was curled up in bed or not."

Moving his hand away, Alfred turned awkwardly to give him a small peck on the forehead. His cheeks were flushed bright pink and he looked a little bit sheepish. From thinking he had to convince him to stay? From his reaction to the babbled reasoning? It was endearing. _He_ was endearing. Matthew was unsure where the slight embarrassment had stemmed from, but he pushed the thoughts aside as he once more turned to face away, allowing the twenty-two-year-old to re-establish a firm grip on his waist.

Breathing in the scent of his skin, they stayed that way for another while. Matthew could feel himself just sinking into the mattress; he wasn't tired enough to go back to sleep, but he was seriously feeling some minor bodily detachment. The feeling of letting his body go numb and just sink was an incredible one.

Then Alfred started fidgeting.

Everything good and pure that existed in the universe was obliterated the very moment he moved.

At first it was easy enough to ignore; the pain killers had kicked in for him - which was probably what was making him a bit groggier than usual in the first place - and all he felt was a dull throbbing sensation in the base of his spine. Nothing serious; nothing he couldn't handle. But with Alfred's slight, occasional movements, he was jarred a little each time. Woken up more and more.

After not very long of his brief hip-shifting and tiny squirms, it started to get annoying.

Really fucking annoying.

_Really fucking fast_.

He put up with it for the first little while of extensive wriggling. There were times when he could get like that; too long in the same spot and he'd notice every little thing. Like a nonexistent spring digging into his hip. Like the way his kneecaps would be grinding together, depending on the way he was lying at the time. Like the itching sweat that would form between whatever it was he was wearing at the time and his skin (thank God he was naked so this wasn't a problem). So it wasn't like he could get mad at him for it; it'd make him a hypocrite. And hypocrites, in his (as humble as he could make it) opinion were kind of gross.

With this in mind he found it easy to deal with. For the first fifteen minutes - which was pretty good for him given the short fuse he had been running on over the past week and a half - he took it all very well.

After the initial fifteen, however, the fuse was beginning to shorten. Drastically, and very rapidly. It was kind of alarming. So instead of waiting until the very edge approached and he snapped like a frail little twig being stepped on by a sumo wrestler, Matthew rolled away from the lawyer and stretched, arching up off of the mattress with a whine before running his hands over his face.

Yawning and rolling over to face the Canadian, Alfred gave him a small smile before pressing close and giving him a firm kiss on the mouth. When he pulled away, he scrunched his slightly upturned nose and made a face.

"Morning breath," he murmured. "You have it."

Laughing, Matthew pulled him back for another sloppy kiss. They were both grinning when they broke apart. "So do you," he retaliated. "It's kind of like something crawled in there and died."

"Mm, fuck you, Mattie."

"I wouldn't complain."

Alfred spluttered uselessly, cheeks reddening, and he let his forehead hit a bony shoulder as the Canadian's laughter rang out sharp and clear and Matthew couldn't help but feel a bit lighter at being able to laugh for the first time in days without feeling like he was going to fall apart at the seams.

Shooting the laughing artist a Look, a sly smile was making itself known on the lawyer's lips and it was Matthew's turn to splutter uselessly. "W-What?" he demanded, nearly choking on his faltering laughter.

Moving easily to straddle the younger man, Alfred was grinning a grin that was a little bit devious and he braced his weight over him. "You wouldn't?"

He blinked. "Wouldn't what?"

Lowering his lips to graze his earlobe, a shiver passed through the rendered speechless man as the warmth of his breath spread across the shell of his ear. "Complain. You wouldn't, would you?"

Absently licking his lips - why was his mouth so dry all of a sudden? And did the heating finally kick in, or was that just him suddenly feeling awfully warm? - he ran his hand over his mouth, tugging at his lips before shaking his head and stuttering out a tiny, squeaky (yet still very masculine, if he was asked) 'no'.

The smile the lawyer wore tripled and a mouth was sealed over his, moments later a tongue slipping into his mouth as a hand roamed down over his bare skin.

Starting a little, Matthew's eyes widened briefly before he shut them, arms sliding around Al's neck to pull him closer.

Which ended up sometime later with the two of them pressed skin-to-skin, Alfred flush against him in a way that made him writhe and arch and whine and beg shamelessly for more for the simple fact that it felt possibly _delicious _and his senses had been set on fire - every single part of him was hot-wired and hypersensitive to the point that it was driving him crazy with want. And all the while Alfred just muttered 'we're going to be the death of each other' beneath his breath with neither venom nor exasperation, and more of a smile than anything.

Lips were pressed hesitantly along one of his wrists, and then trailed down along to his elbow before Alfred repeated the gentle kisses on his other arm, blue eyes deathly serious. Matthew felt a shiver run through him at the direness of his gaze, but instead of shying away he pulled the man closer against him and held him as tightly as he could, kissing whatever part of him he could reach.

Upper chest, neck, shoulder, collarbone, throat, jaw, just grazing his lips. He kissed all of it the same way Alfred had kissed him.

He bit down on the side of his hand to keep from crying out at the way hips shifted against his, the way his own hip was held in a grip that was sure to leave more bruises - there'd be a rainbow there within a few days time - and a warm mouth sought out his, muffling any further noise he could have possibly made. Against demanding lips he sung his praises the best he could, in the only way he could think of, until it felt like he wasn't actually there anymore because pleasure had forced him so far away from rational thinking of any sort.

When the high hit him - his favourite kind of high and he could say that with conviction because he had tried almost every high in the books at one point or another - it hit him hard. When it did, the fingers he had been taking the pains to make sure they weren't latching into his lover's back suddenly found purchase in toned muscle near his broad shoulders (Matthew had never been a fan of football or contact sports in general, but he quite liked what they had done to Alfred's upper torso. Liked it quite a bit.) before sliding down along to the center of his back. Alfred was just as quiet the entire while as he had been the night before, seemingly content to just drink in the noises the other infrequently made. He gasped and trembled and clung as tight as he possibly could because it felt like he would come undone if he let go just yet.

And then, with a pleasant hum, he ran his hand through Alfred's hair as a shudder went through him, a strangled noise that might have been his name in some parallel universe leaving him before he stilled. His chest rose and fell irregularly, his body was damp with sweat and there was a bewildered sort of look on his face that made Matthew laugh outright.

Dropping back, he ran a hand down over his face and let it sit on his collarbone as he stared up at the ceiling, blinking slowly. Gradually exhaling through his nose, he shut his eyes when lips pressed gently against his neck, trailed along his skin to the hollow of his throat and then up and over to his lips. They kissed languidly and when Matthew opened his eyes, he saw Alfred was watching him. July-sky coloured eyes were affectionate and trusting, and the smile he wore caused them to crinkle at the corners. The emotion there was immeasurable and for a moment the Canadian's heart skipped several beats.

Wordlessly, Matthew pulled him back down for another kiss before pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth as the lawyer moved to lie beside him. Fingers slid through his hair, still damp, extra matted and extra-extra curly now, before settling at the base of his neck. Massaging light circles against the back of his neck, Al rubbed their noses together and grinned.

"Lazy afternoon sex," Mattie murmured in a low voice. "My favourite."

Chuckles. Alfred pressed close and ran his hand down along his side; it was tacky from the sweat drying there. "Mm, is it now?" he asked. "I'll file that one away."

"Future reference?"

Nodding, Alfred grinned. "I need to make a mental folder of these things," he said flippantly, sitting up slowly and moving to rest back against the black headboard. He had one knee drawn up near his chest, arm draped across it as he looked down to the sprawled-off young man beside him. "Things I can use against you later on."

Absently, Matthew ran his hand down over his abdomen, and grimaced at the stickiness and rolled out of bed. He might have dealt with it last night all fine and dandy, but there was no way he was lying around with a mess covering him.

"I'll be right back," he said begrudgingly as he swiped his boxers up off of the floor and hauled them on. He straightened with a grimace, hand going to his lower back as he grit his teeth at the brief, flaring discomfort. "You made a fucking mess of me, Jones."

Alfred licked at his lips, eyes roaming over his partner's lean frame, practically devouring him through his gaze alone. "You're a _hot _mess, though. A very, very hot mess. With fries on the side."

"… _Fries_?"

"Well, everything that's good has fries on the side," Al reasoned, gesturing wildly as he spoke. "Burgers, pizza, chicken nuggets. Although I'm pretty sure Jeff would argue that and say tacos go with everything that's good…"

"Wait, wait. Let me get this straight - you're comparing me to food?"

Pausing, he looked thoughtful. "Essentially. But _good_ food! Food I like and-"

One of the pillows that hadn't made its way back to the bed went flying across the room, striking the lawyer square in the face.

Limping to the bathroom as the man on the bed groaned his misery, bellowing misdirected apologies and a rather pitiful-sounding 'but I thought you liked McDonald's burgers!', Matthew ran a hand through his matted hair and worked out the knots with his fingers. Glancing at his reflection, he did a double-take a peered a bit closer, scrunching his nose the closer he got to the glass.

'_I am rocking some serious bedhead,_' he thought, plucking up a strand of his hair and studying the tangled mess of the curl. Letting go of the curl, he was in the process of shutting the bathroom door when he heard the apartment's phone ring. Frowning, he poked his head out the door and glanced over to his partner. An aggrieved look crossed his face and he hung his head.

"If you'll excuse me," he grunted, picking up his glasses from the bedside table and grabbing up the boxers he had thrown to the foot of the bed. "There's a good chance I should take this."

Watching as he crossed the room to flop down in an arm chair he had positioned before one of the windows, he propped his feet up on a small table as he grabbed the cordless phone. "Hello?" There was a pause, Alfred grimaced, but when he spoke it was with a bright, cheery pattern; lilting in a way that was a little more grandiose than what Matthew was used to hearing. The Canadian propped his weight against the doorframe and looked on, listening closely. "Sure thing, Sir. I'd say I'd meet with you today to discuss those papers, but I already have plans made out for the day. When is it those papers are due to be presented in front of a jury?"

Rolling his eyes at the sound of his lover's laughter, Matthew turned back to head into the bathroom as Alfred stood, rubbing his forehead. The lawyer headed down over the stairs; Matthew shut the door.

That laughter was far from real laughter; it was deep, forced. It sounded natural - very natural, actually, which was frightening. But it wasn't his laugh. Alfred's laugh was higher-pitched, and he always laughed to the point of squeaking breathlessness when he thought it was something particularly funny. This was deep and it came from low in his chest, a rumbling sort of noise that, although it was nice to listen to, it was nauseatingly fake to someone that knew him intimately. It disgusted him to no end to hear him laugh like that, but he couldn't help but have to live with it. Even if it made him sick to his stomach in a way that the thought of the lawyer hadn't made him since early January. Dealing with it was easier said than done; he reminded himself as he crossed the bathroom that it wasn't frequently he had to listen to it, so it wasn't too awful. A small amount of solace.

Ripping off the boxers and tossing them to the side, Matthew stepped into the stone-lined shower and stretched before turning on the water. Recoiling with a yelp when an icy blast struck his warm skin, he jerked away and pressed against the equally-cold wall and cursed until the water heated up.

Steam soon filled the enclosed space and he hummed pleasantly, inhaling the filmy steam, letting it coat the back of his throat. The water wasn't exactly boiling hot, but it wasn't just warm, either. Matthew gave a short shiver when he felt it pelt against his skin, which was cooler by far, and then moved to stand directly beneath the spray. Resting his forearms against the stone wall and letting his feet slide back to rest against the wall behind him, it allowed the water coming down to pelt his lower back.

The spray was therapeutic against the soreness of his muscles and a soft hum of appreciation left him as he set his forehead against the wall. Shutting his eyes as what bounced from the spray hitting his back misted in his direction, he pushed all thought aside and just let himself sink into the wonderful sensation.

Once he felt a bit better, with his thoughts clear and his lungs full of shower mist, he slowly straightened and reached his arms up over his head to stretch the sluggish feeling out of his muscles; to strech away the lethargy of the morning. His shoulders popped; he winced.

When he had his hair washed, his body scrubbed (and he had probably used up the remaining hot water in the whole damn building, not just for Alfred's apartment), Matthew crawled reluctantly from the warm haven of the shower only to find that he had been in there for nearly half an hour. More than half an hour. Eyes widened as he stared at the clock on the wall. He had been in there for almost forty minutes. _Oops_.

Not like he hadn't done that before; he remembered back when he had first moved into his place over Jade and Greg. One day when they had gone out and he had stayed in the shower for almost an hour and a half. Stayed there, daydreamed and sat in relative silence - personal silence, really, because he had dragged a stereo to sit in front of the door - until the water ran close enough to cold before he was driven out with the realization of '_holy shit I have to reset their water boiler before they get home oh my God I'm going to get kicked out oh my fuck I am so fucking doomed why did I even do this_?'

(But he had been being delusional because, even then, a little voice had told him that there was no way they would kick him out for something as simple and fixable as that.

'_Now, if it had been your other landlord,_' the Lamp had told him sagely once he had returned from his stint in the basement, trying frantically to fix the water boiler, '_you would have been fucked and back in the gutter so fast your mother would have felt it._' Another fine example of the Lamp's sound logic.)

(The Lamp's logic is still very sound, by the way; It's just a little quieter these days, but is still there for Matthew on those days when he really needs something to talk to other than a living, breathing sack of flesh, frazzled emotions and flaws like his own.)

Swiping his hand across the surface of the mirror and then grabbing a cloth to wipe the excess water that ran down the glass, he leant forward and prodded at the bags beneath his eyes - bags that shouldn't have been there given how much time he had spent sleeping lately - while he blindly groped about the granite surface for a shaving razor. The bags were so deep he could probably load them up with groceries if he wanted to. Coming up with Alfred's instead of his own, he stared at it for a moment and then shrugged it off. A razor was a razor, and he'd be a good boy and clean it off when he was done with it.

Lathering it up, along with his chin, Matthew sighed. It wasn't like he actually needed to shave; he had done so three or four days ago and even now there was barely any hair on his face.

A newborn's bottom was a likelier candidate for hair growth than what his face, chest and legs were.

Okay, his legs weren't too poorly off in comparison to everything else - at least he didn't look like a speed swimmer or something. Or a naked mole rat. Unless his name was Rufus, there was no fucking way he wanted to look like a naked mole rat because those things were just fucking hideous little abominations that had been abandoned by evolution _yet they still managed to survive and thrive_.

Dipping his sudsy razor into the sink of lukewarm water he had filled, he slid it down along his chin, nicking the few rogue hairs that had managed to sprout. Back in Alberta, one of his friends had owned a platoon of naked mole rats. For reasons unbeknownst to him, his older sister - weirdest girl he had ever met in his life, but also (he admitted this with some embarrassment) his first crush - had decided to breed a whole bunch of the little demons for her grade eleven biology project. The nature of the project, he didn't know, but all he knew was that his friend had ended up with seven or eight naked mole rats and once they were in his possession and running around his room, Matthew refused to set foot in there again.

There was something in their saggy, pink skin when paired with those emotionless, beady black eyes that just made him shiver. And gag with revulsion. And pray for whatever nuclear waste they were being fed to maintain their appearance to be replaced with some wholesome pellets and pieces of lettuce or limbs of little animals or whatever the fuck it was they ate (for all he knew, they could have very well been cannibals).

His friend had told him to man the fuck up - ever the colourful vocabulary for a ten-year-old - and stop being such a pussy because there wasn't anything wrong with a naked mole rat. In fact, they were totally cool. Then, he had thought he was absolutely insane to even suggest it.

Even now Matthew thought his friend had been absolutely batshit.

Wiping off the edge of the blade, Matthew tossed it back onto the counter, letting the water out of the sink as he wiped his face off with a cloth. Looking along the collections of bottles there - lotions, shampoos, conditioners, colognes, why the fuck did he have so many? - he picked up Alfred's bottle of aftershave and studied it, shaking it. The liquid inside sloshed nosily against the insides of the glass container. Uncapping it, he sniffed it, hesitated and then capped it again before setting it back in its place. While it smelt fantastic, he didn't want to smell like Alfred. Grunting, he took a step back and plucked through the other bottles.

Stopping, hand hovering over a black bottle, a small frown crossed his lips. It was the same aftershave he used when he did. Black Suede. Did he bring it over one day and forget to take it back with him? Picking up the bottle, it was weightier than his own. There was still a plastic seal around the cap, discrediting his first idea. Unless Alfred had bought one so that it would be there for him when he shaved.

A smile crossed his face and he scratched at the back of his ankle with his toe. If that was the case, then that was awfully thoughtful of him. Sweet, too.

And if not, well then that sucked because he was going to use it whether it was his or not.

Cheeks and the underside of his neck coated and massaged with a thin layer of aftershave, Matthew wandered back into the bedroom. He frowned when he saw that, despite the amount of time that had passed between his going into the bathroom and leaving, Alfred still hadn't come back upstairs.

Wincing at the feeling of the cold floor beneath his bare feet, he hauled open Al's closet and grabbed a pair of the man's gym pants. A gray, baggy pair that hung a little too low and too loose on his hips, but they were comfy (and the smallest pair there, he noted with some disdain). Even if he had to pull the drawstring as tight as he could get it just to keep them up.

With his just located sketchbook and pencils in hand, he made his way back over to the mess of a bed and dropped down on the covers, bouncing for a brief moment with a cringe, before sliding back to sit against the headboard. Opening his book and dropping it down in his lap, he slowly flipped through the pages, studying each individual picture as he always did. It was easy to tell when he went through periods of depression compared to when he didn't; until recently, he hadn't noticed how it affected his art. Those pieces were done with heavier lines, the subjects a little more obscure - even to him. A few pictures, even after a few minutes of studying, he couldn't tell what the subject was.

(One of them reminded him of Sylvia Plath, but he decided to pass it off as merely a freaky coincidence and, looking to the date at the bottom of the page, when he had been working out the logistics of Option 16 while prying out stitches and spending his time in a place that was beyond less than desirable, it was even easier to understand.)

(And then he did find the Sylvia Plath-inspired one, and he felt something bordering on banal.)

They were nothing more than dark, indecipherable blobs of lead and charcoal strewn together in a way that was supposed to be some semblance of art. Sometimes they looked okay, other times it looked like a pencil had projectile-vomited on paper - most of the people he knew would tell him that they all looked fantastic and ask him why he didn't put himself out there to try and sell some of those pieces.

Well, as much as he had loved the extensive amount of income it had brought in when Greg and some of his co-workers had purchased copies of his paintings (some of them he hadn't been willing to part with, so he just repainted them), he just hated the thought of parting with any of his paintings. Repainting them, however, didn't feel right. The same emotion didn't go into redoing them as what went into them the first time around. It felt _wrong._

And it wasn't like he had the means to print off copies of them. So, he sat with a growing collection of paintings and was content to do so. His art was meant for him anyway, not the critique and prying imagination and eyes of someone else. If other people enjoyed it then, well, that just so happened to be a bonus. A really big bonus that made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Like there were kittens in his tummy. A whole litter of kittens.

Opening to a fresh page once he finished his regular assessment of the drawings and doodles already in the book, he licked the tip of his pencil and started to draw, one hand reaching out across the bed to the bedside table, where Alfred had dropped his iPhone and headphones.

He stayed there, curled at the top of the bed and listening to his partner's music while drawing for the longest while; at least another hour had to pass before he was rejoined by the lawyer, the older man dropping down on the bed beside him.

Reaching out blindly, he ran his hand through the man's flaxen blonde hair before letting it rest there as he continued to draw. It was nothing spectacular, just a girl sat on … something. Maybe it would be a balcony. Or a beach. Or a balcony overlooking a beach. He didn't exactly know just yet but it would eventually be something. Or, maybe, he would leave it alone and do absolutely nothing with it because sometimes backgrounds were for squares.

Laying his head down on one of the free parts of Matthew's lap, Alfred stayed there with his arms folded over his bare torso, face upturned toward the ceiling. His eyes were shut though, his expression peaceful, and Williams stopped sketching momentarily to watch his lover as he lay there. A smile curved his lips upward and he trailed his fingers along a strong jaw, down over his throat and let them sit at his collarbone.

Blue eyes fluttered open, the smile he was given was a wicked one, and Alfred pulled one of the ear pieces out of Matt's ear. Pulling the Canadian down close, he whispered in his ear, voice dramatic-sounding; deep and husky: "Draw me like one of your French girls, _Matthew._"

Matthew didn't know if he wanted to laugh or smack him with his book.

So instead of trying to make up his mind, he did both at the same time.

"I don't draw French girls, Al," he said dryly.

"Okay, well, then draw me like one of your French boys, instead," Alfred laughed, rubbing his thigh where Matthew had playfully smacked him.

"I don't draw French boys, either."

"Well then let me see what the fuck you draw then, so you can draw me like that," he snorted, yanking the book out of the younger man's hands and flipping to the very first page. A frown crossed his face as he studied the first picture, and then, a moment later, he flipped through the next for or five pages without really looking at what was there.

"These drawings are a lot different than what you do now," he commented, going back a page and studying it. "Why?"

Matthew laughed. "That's cause I've had this sketchbook since I turned sixteen. That's six years with the same book, man. My style has changed a bit since then."

Closing the book and studying the spine, the front and back covers, he smiled wryly. "Well, this book _does_ look like it's seen better days," he drawled. "How many drawings d'you got in here?"

"That's a good question," Matthew muttered. "I 'unno, sometimes I use both sides of the page, sometimes I don't. I mean, there's about 400 pages in it, and I still have a good hundred-odd left to use, so it's anywhere between 300 and 400 drawings."

"And what'll you do when you finish that book?" Alfred asked.

Giving him a strange look, Matthew shrugged, still watching as he thumbed through the pages, occasionally settling on a sketch to study it a little longer than the others. "I'll get another one. And then I'll fill that one, too. But I think this time around I'll get one with a hardcover, cause then it mightn't get as damaged as fast."

"Who knows, if you hadn't spent all that time living … the way you did, then maybe it wouldn't be in as shitty condition as what it is now?" he commented with a shrug.

Making a noise of consideration, it was easy to accept that that could very well have been the case; if things had even been slightly different, everything would have been changed. He might have gone to Holland, with Lars. Gone to university there like he planned if his mother hadn't gotten sick. But if she had gotten sick, then he still wouldn't have gone. But if she hadn't died, then he wouldn't have been forced to live on the streets. Things wouldn't have gotten as bad as they did. He wouldn't have tried to kill himself the way he had.

Things, he realized with a growing discomfort in his stomach, would have been very different.

He wouldn't have met McKnight. Wouldn't have gotten that job at the supermarket. Wouldn't have met Alfred-

"Hey, you alright?" Alfred was sitting up, a look of concerning blooming across his face. "You just got fuckin' white all of a sudden there, Matt. You're not gonna be sick, are you? Why don't you lie down or something-"

Matthew shook his head weakly (_no, no, I'm fine; just fucking delusional. And neurotic. And all those words that go with those other two_) then pulled the man in for a firm kiss, and when they broke apart they were breathing heavily. With trembling hands, Matt held onto his face and studied it, taking in each sun spot, each little freckle and the way his nose turned up a little at the end and the bump in the center of his nose. The shape of his jaw, his cheek bones. Memorized the crinkles at the corner of his eyes (they were always stronger when he was laughing and smiling, but they were still present in his distress), the blueness of his eyes and the plumpness of his lips. Neither of them spoke, mainly because Alfred didn't know what the hell he could say and the Canadian just didn't want to speak at all.

Alfred continued to watch him with a disquieted look before pulling his eyes away and lacing their fingers together as he lowered the hands from his face. Just gave him a short kiss on the cheek and then dropped to lie down once more with his head in his lap as he flicked through the sketchbook.

Running his fingers through the lawyer's tangled hair, he gnawed on his lower lip and stared out blankly across the bedroom, fixating momentarily on the chandelier that hung just beyond the banister. Then he moved his eyes to the windows, all the while doing his best to force the gut-churning 'what ifs' and 'wouldn't haves' down as far as he could get them. Wanted to suffocate them under a pillow that would serve as an emotional barrier. Choke them off the best way he knew how.

(Usually that was with a few pills, but this time around he didn't exactly feel like it.)

Then again, that did remind him about having to take his pill… With a groan he pulled his legs away and swung them over the side, rubbing his face briefly before standing. "I'll be right back," he muttered. "Do you remember if I left any of my pills here?"

Alfred glanced at him. Then he looked back down to the book. "Yeah, I think you got maybe four or five left."

He scratched his lower back and nodded before padding across the cold floor, down over the stairs they had almost managed to get themselves killed on last night, across the living room and into the kitchen.

Now, to try and find them. Matthew ran a hand through his hair, tugged on it, and then pivoted on his heel. They could be just about anywhere by now; he had no idea which cupboard he had left them in, and he knew full-well that Alfred would be absolutely useless to him.

Stomach growling, he stopped his search and then placed his hand on his stomach, plucking at his skin and poking his finger in. Huffing when his stomach grumbled again, he turned on his heel, placing his back to the cold counter. "Hey!" he shouted.

There was shuffling; the sound of someone hitting the floor a little heavier than intended and then Alfred was stood by the banister, leaning his weight on the black metal railing. "Yeah?"

"I'm hungry!"

Alfred screwed up his face. "Then fucking cook something, don't just tell me about it."

"But I want Chinese," he whined, folding his arms over his chest as he moved to start searching through the cupboards for his little white pill bottle; it was a Tylenol bottle, sans label, that he was using, and frankly it could have been anywhere by now. Like Narnia. Things tended to end up in Narnia for him. "Or, like, Thai or something. Do you have anything lying around to make that stuff?"

At first he said nothing, and then the lawyer grinned a little. "I'll order us in some Chinese. How does that sound?"

Spluttering, Matthew shook his head. "Dude, we went out to dinner last night. If you got the stuff to make even a small bit of Chinese - even just stir-fry or whatever, I'll make it. You don't need to order anything."

Alfred waved him off. "Dude, I'm hungry too. And now that you mention it, Chinese would be fucking fantastic. Anyway, we don't have any wonton soup lying around, so it's not Chinese without wonton soup I don't give a fuck about whatever argument you might have about it because they're all fucking invalid."

(Not commenting on the use of the word 'we', he just smiled a little, looked at his hands and found himself feeling a little warmer than usual.)

"Alright, alright," he conceded. "You can order some take-out. Wait until around - ah, there you are, you little _fucker_ - wait until around five before calling for it. And you better know a good place for Chinese, because I don't want any shitty take-out."

"Yes'sir," Alfred laughed as he pushed away from the banister, rocking back before pivoting stumblingly back in the direction of the bed.

Grabbing a glass and filling it with water, he popped back a pill before draining the glass, filling it and then draining it again. And then he just stood there for a moment or two, leaning his weight on the counter as he looked out across and around the apartment.

There was a suit jacket - his - and Al's bomber jacket draped over the back of the sofa. There were empty cola cans on top of the table, an ashtray that seriously needed to be dumped, and a mess of empty chip bags beneath the table, as well as a few McDonalds bags and Big Mac boxes. The pig. His 360 was perched dangerously on the edge of the table, there were headsets and controllers all over the place, as if they had spawned out of nowhere, and it became quite plain to him that he was in a relationship with an inherently lazy bastard.

Saying the place needed to be cleaned was the understatement of the century.

And that bottle of wine sitting forgotten on the kitchen table really should have been put in the 'fridge long ago. Hopefully it would be chilled enough by the time dinner got there (given the fact that it was just after two, it probably would be). And even though he wasn't entirely sure if wine went very well with Chinese, he didn't exactly care. That bottle should have already been finished. It was a veritable crime, in his mind, to waste good spirits. And that wine had been damn good.

There was no way he was going to be the one to clean the place though, and there was no way he was going to let him hire someone to do so. That was the height of laziness. There were just some things in life he had to let him suffer through all on his own. He needed to man the fuck up, grow a pair and pick up a pair of rubber gloves, some furniture polish and a garbage bag and clean his own damn apartment.

'_I may be dating you,_' he thought venomously, '_but I am not going to pick up after your sorry, pampered, rich, white-boy ass. Do it yourself, Princess._'

Once the wine was placed in the very back of the fridge and he had decided to be a nice enough person as to collect their jackets and hang them up (he hesitated before hanging his suit jacket up in the closet, but then just said the hell with it and stuck it in there), he returned to the loft and curled back up in the bed with his partner.

Alfred, just proving his position of Inherently Lazy Bastard of the Year, was still in no more than a pair of ratty boxers, splayed across the covers and flicking through the sketchbook.

Smiling fondly and pressing a warm kiss to his cheek as the Canadian curled up against him, slipping beneath the blankets as he grabbed a pillow to put his head on, Alfred turned back to the sketchbook.

Taking a peek, Matthew saw he was towards the middle, where the drawings were practically black from the heaviness of his hand at the time and their subjects utterly indecipherable, he grimaced but said nothing; just let him look through the pictures at his own pace. These weren't very remarkable pieces - in fact, he thought them to be some of his worst - but he had gotten a lot better at form during his time on the streets. Which was when most of the ones he was flicking through now had been drawn during.

He had gotten better at form, but bad at every other thing he had ever been taught. Especially perspective. Possibly because he had lost a lot of his own sense of perspective, his mind having been addled by drugs for ninety percent of the time, and it had just thrown him completely out of sorts. He didn't know the difference between up and down, or near and far half of the time. For all he had cared, there could have been a pink sky and flying cats.

It had taken getting settled in that shitty little hole of an apartment in Brooklyn for him to really get his shit together - emotionally, financially (even though that never really happened) and artistically.

"What the fuck is this supposed to be?"

Glancing up, startled from his thoughts, he looked over to the sketchbook and then grinned, laughing quietly. It was the Sylvia Plath-inspired picture. No wonder he was asking that. "Do you know who Sylvia Plath is?"

Alfred stared at him. "Uh, no. Should I?"

"Well, have you ever read the Bell Jar?"

He seemed to think about it, and then shook his head. "I've heard of it, but I've never actually read it or anythin'. I heard it's depressing as fuck. It doesn't seem like something I'd read, y'know?"

"… I'll loan you a copy of my book," Matthew said. "But either way, I drew this back almost two years ago now, while I was-" his throat closed over for a moment and he mentally cursed himself for still being unable to talk about it even though the past was the past and he knew Alfred wouldn't think anything negative of it. He cleared his throat. Tried again. "I drew that when I spent some time on the, uh, psych ward. I had found a copy of the Bell Jar and a huge anthology of all Plath's poetry. Read through it in a day or two, and then I drew that."

"Why the hell would they keep her writing on a psych ward if it turned around and made you draw that?" Al demanded incredulously.

"She killed herself by sticking her head in a gas oven and turning it on," he laughed. "Locked her children in their bedroom with bread and milk, sealed off the room with tape and left a window open so they wouldn't be gassed." Matthew fell silent, looking at the sketch book with a frown on his face. "No wonder they decided to keep me an extra week after they saw what I had drawn."

"_No wonder_," the lawyer scoffed darkly. He paused. Then: "Uh, how … how long were you there for?"

"I was in the ICU for round about a week, and then they put me under heavy observation on the psych ward for a week and a half," he said quietly. An easy way for him to say suicide watch. Observation rolled off the tongue a little easier; made him feel a little bit better about himself despite the euphemism. "I … kind of got fed up with being constantly watched and prodded and questioned, so one night in between the nurse's rounds, I bolted. Grabbed my old clothes, threw 'em on and took off."

"Why would you do that?" Alfred demanded, tearing his eyes away from the sketchbook; he had moved on through the next couple of pages.

"I don't know. It's like I said, I just got fed up with constantly being watched. I was so used to just being off and doing my own thing. I didn't really know how to socialize the greatest for a while, and frankly I wasn't fit to talk to or look at," he grumbled. "They were constantly worried that I was going to off myself at any given moment. And I just needed out."

Alfred's eyes were sharp; deadly serious as he watched his partner. Matthew felt uncomfortable beneath the gaze, vulnerable even. "Would you have?" he asked in a low voice.

"Killed myself?" he murmured. He couldn't answer right away. Mulling it over, he rubbed the back of his neck before nodding slowly. "Yeah, probably. I mean, one day I spent half an hour picking the stitches out of my arm before a nurse came in; panicked cause there was blood everywhere and gave me a mild sedative so they could sew me back up like a little fucking Frankenstein. That probably happened three or four times in the run of a week."

The lawyer said nothing. He just looked at his lover with a pained expression before turning back to the art book. His movements were a little more lethargic as he turned the pages, subdued. Kissing his cheek, Matthew nuzzled his skin and gave him a tiny smile. The gesture was returned albeit barely.

Maybe he shouldn't have answered his questions. Curling back up and watching as Alfred skimmed through the pages, he rested his head against the lawyer's bicep, the skin warm against his cheek. He seemed to be genuinely interested in what was there, blue eyes skimming across the pages and taking in everything that was there. Matthew squirmed a little, feeling a bit self-conscious. It felt like his mind was after being cracked open and tapped into; he very rarely let people look through his entire sketchbook. A page or two, maybe. But no more than that. Never more than that. And now here they were and Alfred was already half-way through the contents of it, sometimes skimming the pages, more times studying them attentively.

Fingers slid through his hair comfortingly, he glanced up to him, and Matthew was given a tentative smile.

Grabbing Al's iPhone and putting the earbuds back in and turning the music on again, he shut his eyes and pressed his cheek into the pillow and curled in close to both the mattress and the man beside him. He wasn't going to go back to sleep, but he didn't want to keep watching as his art was looked through. It made him squirm too much.

With some Dallas Green providing a bit of background noise, he hummed quietly in time to the song he was listening to. The song was a soft one, as was most of his music. It was no surprise Al had gotten into his music collection. No surprise at all.

Matthew licked at his lips as he stifled a yawn. Nope, he wasn't going to go back to sleep. He didn't exactly need anymore sleep. Totally wasn't going to go back to sleep.

Totally not.

(Tell that to the fact that the mattress was comfier than sin itself.)

Fingers running through his hair caught his attention and, jerking his head up, Matthew felt disoriented and, quickly, he sat up, looking around the room. There was a cottony dry taste in his mouth, he felt sluggish and heavy, like an extra thirty pounds had been dropped on him.

"I fell asleep, didn't I?" he said in a flat voice as he settled back, crossing his legs and stretching forward, pressing his chest down against his calves.

Alfred, who still lay on his stomach, laughed and ran a hand down over the smaller man's bare back. "Yeah, you've been out for the better part of an hour now," he said. The sketchbook was closed and placed on a pillow at the top of the bed.

"So much for staying awake," Matthew muttered, rubbing his face and the back of his neck before looking around him, sitting back up slowly. Then, stretching, he looked to the lawyer and grinned as an idea came to mind. It was a wonderful idea, and it would be a fantastic way to spend the evening. While staying in bed was fantastic and all, he would more than likely fall back to sleep and then be fucked for the rest of the night (figuritively) when he threw off his sleeping pattern.

"Wanna watch a movie?"

Genius.

"Okay, sure." He sat up and slid off of the bed - still in his boxers and in desperate need of a shave, the lazy asshole. "Anything in particular you want to watch?"

"Mm, wanna watch 28 Weeks Later? Or Sunshine? Actually, I might have a copy of Paranormal Activity in my bag if you wanna watch that."

Pure, simple genius. He was a master.

Alfred seemed to lose a little bit of colour and he laughed weakly. "I-I have a copy of that Jason Statham movie that just came out recently. Y'wanna watch that instead? 'Cos that's a lot better than, y'know, some dumb old B-Grade horror flick, r-right?"

Smirking, Matthew rolled off of the bed and stood as well, folding his arms across his chest. "But _I'd_ rather watch something scary. I mean, look at it: it's almost October, which means it's almost Halloween, and it's all stormy and it's getting dark soon. Wouldn't you rather watch a horror movie instead of just some dumb explosions and gunfire movie? It's the perfect atmosphere for one."

Like he actually gave a fuck about 'atmosphere'.

A 'no' was squeaked out, Matthew burst out laughing and goaded the older man on, taunting him shamelessly.

You're a chicken. A pansy. Aw, does the big bad District Attorney need a little grocery store stock-boy like me to protect him? Why now, I think he does! Isn't that just precious. Oh, c'mere and let me take care of you. We can watch My Little Pony instead and paint each other's toenails. Isn't that just a grand idea?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Matthew usually wins his fights.

He's not very nice about it.

In fact, he's sort of a dick.

(And as they ate their Chinese food which showed up an hour later than what the delivery men told them, cold and lumpy, you would have to hold him at gunpoint to get him to admit that the only reason he suggested putting on horror movies and watching them in the dark was because he liked the way Alfred insisted on holding him because that way he would know 'that he was safe' and that 'the zombies and psycho-killer totally won't get him'. He knew very well it was because the lawyer was absolutely petrified. But that was okay. He'd pretend he didn't notice.)

(Maybe that was a bit sadistic of him, to pry on those fears for the sake of being held awfully close, but hey, it worked for him.)

* * *

Woo! Hey guys! Here's another chapter fer y'all. I didn't spell check this! Go me! And I'm not exactly sure when the next one is going to get up; I'm really busy with work over the next week or two so I might not get much of a chance to sit down and do any major writing. And then I leave on the 29th of April for ten days! Woooo vacation time lmao I need it so badly. ;w;

ANYWAY. THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE FAVES AND REVIEWS AND ALERTS AND JUST OH MY GOD. I can't believe this thing has almost 700 reviews hahah what the fuck you're all perfect. Each and every one of you. ;w; -hearts and snuggles-


	34. Chapter 34

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.  
**"_That was too close; you were almost a Jill sandwich!_"

As much as he loved the time of year - the crispness of the air, the leaves changing colours, the anticipation that built up over the course of the month that lead to the very end - the only thing Matthew hated about October was the fact that the days got shorter and shorter, until it was practically pitch black out by five o'clock in the evening.

But as much as he hated that, he also loved it for the simple fact that it made watching horror movies and playing horror videogames in the pitch dark so much easier.

Like now.

Curled up alone in his apartment, bundled beneath piles of blankets and sitting in inky darkness, it was a Tuesday night and Matthew was letting his brain ooze out through his ears by doing absolutely nothing productive. Unless the plan of twelve hours straight of Resident Evil was considered productive in a parallel universe, his brain was going to be nothing but squishy gray gunk.

It was going on nine in the evening and Matthew had his eyes peeled wide as he navigated Jill through the entrance hall of the Spencer Mansion. Barry was already off doing his own thing, and Chris had disappeared. So it was just him and Jill, navigating the hell hole, gun in hand with absolutely no background music. All he could hear was the sound of Jill's combat boots as she wandered around the main level of the grandiose, death-infested mansion.

If anything, it was the silence of the game that was getting to him.

(Silence was always the first thing to drive him crazy.)

Walking through the main hall, up over the stairs - staying away from the front door was a necessity, given the rabid, T-Virus infected dogs that would rush the door when you tried to open the damn thing - Matthew hesitated before he sent her off down one of the adjacent halls. It had been at least six years since he had played the game, so he couldn't remember which room to go to first. Nor did he have any idea what to do. Unless he was supposed to go downstairs first, and go through that room with the statue in the center…

Shit. He needed a walkthrough, and desperately. So much could go wrong if he went to the wrong room first. Like, he could miss out on green and red herbs; miss out on ammo; miss out on weapons; miss out on maps and journal entries.

Miss out on some fucking awesome zombie brain blowing-out action.

Pausing the game, he dug around the sofa cushions for his cellphone, groping blindly in the dark until he found it. Sliding it open, he started to type:

_Mathias save me where the fuck  
do i go in the very beginning of the  
first RE game? room w/ the statue  
or back where the 1__st__ zombie is  
eating out kenneth? ;)_

Sliding the phone shut, he unpaused the game and continued to wander around the top floor, getting a feel for the awkward controls; he had gotten so used to playing games on the 360 that, with this archaic Playstation One game, navigating was an anal task (and not the good anal, either); push the joystick forward and she'd move backwards. Push the joystick back and she'd move forward. More than once Matthew had contemplated taking the controller and throwing it at the television screen, but then he would take a deep breath and calmly remind himself that it wasn't his TV to mangle.

_If it was though…_

His phone happened to vibrate at the same time as the controller in his hand as he was attacked by a zombie that seemed to come out of nowhere, and a frightened shout left Matthew as the controller left his hands, flying to the floor as he recoiled sharply. Jill was getting devoured by the particularly relentless zombie (poor bastard must have been starved) and all he could do was sit there, heart pounding with an unremitting vigour against his ribs. Without taking his eyes off of the screen - which now read _You Are Dead - _he slid his hand along the sofa and grappled with the phone, quickly retracting it back into the safe confines of his blanket castle.

_ha ha ha I c wat u did ther ;D  
u got 2 go in2 the room on teh  
main florr cos theres a map &  
i__nk ribbon in there that u need.  
__lemme no if u need mor help._

'_Spell check, bro,_' he thought with a slight amount of disdain as he replied to the message he had to spend a moment deciphering, '_you could seriously handle it._'

Tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him, Matthew bent forward to try and grab the controller he had tossed to the floor (all while trying to keep his legs and feet tucked firmly beneath him). Instead of latching onto it like he had been aiming for in the first place, he overreached and landed face-first on the floor, face squishing into the wood with a heavy _thump_. Sharp pain flared all up along his face and straight through his nose. A groan of pain left him and he let the rest of his body roll off of the sofa.

Then it hit him: shit no he was on the floor he was totally defenceless now with nothing soft to protect him so that meant the zombies would get him _oh Lord he was screwed so hard and in so many ways_.

Matthew scrambled to get back up on the sofa and to get the blankets wrapped around him once more. Fuelled by this completely irrational logic that would have his partner roaring with laughter, the artist made certain he was bundled up to the nines with his controller, his cellphone, the gigantic bottle of Pepsi Max and Coke Zero on the coffee table as well as the bowl of chips, sour Cherry Blasters and watermelon candies.

He was on the sofa for the night and he was going to play through as much of the goddamn game as he possibly could. It wasn't like he needed to go to work on Wednesday, anyway, so he could stay up as late and sleep in as long as he wanted to.

Bringing himself back to the dining room where the typewriter and the first zombie corpse was he moved Jill from the room and out into the main hall once more. No need to go upstairs just yet; for one, that zombie was still wandering around up there. It was the main floor room he needed to go to anyway. Not like he could just _leave _the stuff he needed there; ink ribbons, if he could remember properly, were a bitch to come across - and it was good to have a stock of them, especially if you ran out of them right before a particularly hard level.

Hunkering down on the sofa with a look of sheer determination on his face - jaw set, eyes peeled and focused on the glowing plasma screen that illuminated the room - and cursing beneath his breath as he entered the side room, he scanned the screen. "A_ha_." There was the statue, a woman holding an urn (and not to mention a body lying on the floor; after close inspection, it proved to be dead and a sigh of relief left him). At the top of it was a small, glowing object: the map of the first floor, just like Mathias had told him. _Perfect_. Getting Jill to climb up and grab the map, Matthew continued to scan his eyes over the screen. The body was still dead. There was the door he needed to go through later on, and there was the backroom. Now that he was looking at it, he found himself remembering the places he needed to go. First to the backroom, where the ink ribbon was. Then he needed to pick the lock on the other door.

What lay beyond that door, he couldn't remember for the life of him, but that was alright; he'd get to that when the time was right.

Map secured and, after fiddling around with the buttons to try and bring it up a few times, he moved to the back room where the ink ribbon was.

And, of course, where the other fucking zombie was.

He had forgotten about that zombie.

Damn it all to hell and beyond.

Spinning Jill around despite the fact that he wanted her to stay in one goddamn place, he shot around him in circles, only hitting the zombie once - and non-fatally at that. In the shoulder. What good was shooting a zombie in the shoulder? It was no fucking good at all, that's what it was. Cursing aloud as he was cornered by the undead bastard, Matthew knifed it instead of wasting bullets. All that happened was the zombie staggered backward before lunging at him again, slugging its dead weight across the small space the violent gesture had created. Doing this again, he forced the zombie back again with another stab.

Enough of this horseshit. Sprinting out of the little hallway (thankfully he had remembered to grab the ribbon while he had been in there), he ran in an unintentional circle before turning back to shove the wooden block across the mouth of the back hall. That would block off the bast-

Fuck. Fuck everything walking on one leg, two legs, three legs and four or however many goddamn legs it might have had; the zombie had managed to worm its way between the small gap in the wood as he had pushed it across.

Matthew let out a frustrated groan and shook the controller angrily as he watched the zombie advance across the screen, steps jerky and awkward. Other than the fact that he hadn't had time, maybe the other reason he had never picked Resident Evil back up after his first time finishing it was because of the fact that he got frustrated so easily with it. He wasn't like this when it came to his other horror games. He never got angry with those. Resident Evil, however, brought out the little Tyrant in him.

Backing away from the monster as Jill drew up her handgun, Matthew prodded tentatively at his tender nose and pressed forward as he started to fire off shots. None of them were getting it in the head! They were all landing in his torso, which was not where he wanted them to go.

"You stupid _bitch_," he hissed beneath his breath as he retreated from the advancing zombie. Why couldn't he just try to throw his knife at the thing's head? Surely that could work. "Shoot in a fucking straight line and stopping moving like some kind of retard panda _these fucking controls are shit I hate you so much Sony._"

Running from the room as he found it impossible to kill the thing - seriously, those damn zombies needed to learn when to lie the fuck down and not get back up - he hesitated, staying out in the main hall and breathing heavily for a moment. Maybe the zombie would have returned to the back hall and he'd be able to pick the lock on the blue door without getting his flesh eaten. Sometimes it worked in other games, right?

Hoping (see: profusely praying) for the best, he went back into the room. Then he considered throwing his controller again because the bastard was still there.

The zombie was even more persistent than _Alfred_. Christ on crackers.

And the body that had been playing dead up until he had left the room was up for the party, too. Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Matthew wanted to cry and laugh all at once because he couldn't throw his controller at the screen in a rage-filled fit.

Dancing circles - literally; he still didn't quite have the hang of the controls just yet (maybe he should have considered staying out in the main, _empty _hall to practice) - around the zombies, he accidentally walked her into a wall before whipping Jill around and firing off a few shots. Luckily enough, one of the bullets fluked into nailing the undead freak in the head, downing him instantly. The remaining zombie, however, launched itself at his character from behind and threw her forward. Before he had a chance to try and fight the monster off, the zombie was already overpowering the brunette little squirt, and was trying to take as best a chomp out of her as it could.

Cursing fluently beneath his breath and steadily button-mashing, he continued to spin Jill around in some sort of evasive/look-at-me-I'm-a-freak dance before escaping getting mauled by managing to land another two bullets into the remaining zombie's skull.

And then there was one.

With a little self-congratulatory pat on the back, Matthew was grinning dumbly as he finally found the chance to go and pick the lock on the door at the back of the room. A shiver passing through him as he watched the animation of the door swinging open - the eerie, silent background punctuated by a soft creak of door hinges was frighteningly accurate despite the age of the game - before stepping into the hall beyond the door.

Still feeling a little rattled from the run in with the zombies, he walked Jill down the hall instead of making her run. Knowing his luck, the hall would either be crawling with zombies, or there would be something else lurking. Something that liked to eat protagonists for lunch.

Or maybe it would be Barry and he'd have another stupid little one-liner. It always made for fantastic comic relief.

He wasn't even a hundredth through the game, and here he was, already desperate for some comedy. A few shits and giggles, not-

The window shattered, causing him to jolt, scream curses and come nearly a foot off the sofa as a T-Virus infected dog came bounding and snarling into the room. He barely had a chance to quell his racing heart and shoot the dumb fucker when, at the same time, there was a heavy knock on the inside door of his apartment. Three loud, heavy knocks and the door creaked open.

If the dog wasn't enough to take a few years off of Matthew's life, then Greg standing silhouetted in his doorway without ample warning was.

Not even pausing the game as the dog proceeded to maul Jill - which would kill her, and bring him right back to the beginning in the dining room and he'd have to go through the process of finding the map and ribbon and killing the dumb fucking persistent-er than Alfred zombies all over again - Matthew let out a high-pitched curse/scream combination before throwing himself over the back of the sofa, hitting the wall in the process, and cowering behind it as logic eluded him. He didn't need those limbs or that shoulder anyway. As long as he didn't break the plaster on the wall, he didn't give any fucks.

A light flickered on, burning his eyes and practically blinding him. He hissed, covering his eyes with the blanket still around him as he lay facedown on the floor (because the sofa and blankets were enough protection).

"… Matthew?"

Scooting across the floor, his six-year-old self pretending to be a caterpillar, he inched his blanket-wrapped body along the back of the sofa in order to poke his head around the corner. Indigo eyes were wide with shock.

Forgoing human contact to play survival horror games in the dark was a bad idea. A _very_ bad idea.

But a _fun _bad idea.

Kind of like stealing cars and going for joyrides, illegal border crossing and graffiti.

"Is this … a bad time for you?" Greg asked. He scrunched his forehead and he gave the artist a skeptical look, glancing to the television and then back to his young tenant before arching an eyebrow. "I mean, I don't entirely mind coming back in a few minutes should you need it to _collect _yourself."

Ouch. Matthew winced as his dislodged his body from the small gap between the back of the sofa and the wall, unravelling himself from the blanket. "No, no," he prattled, "it's totally an okay time. I'm just, uh, _indulging _in the Halloween spirit by spending all night holing myself up playing zombie games."

Greg nodded slowly, obviously not getting it. All that business must have sucked the inner child clean out of him. "Well, there's a man downstairs for you. I guess it's a good thing I didn't send him up right away."

"Someone for me?" Matthew asked. Glancing to the screen, he glowered at the plasma TV when he saw the words 'You Are Dead' displayed in all their pixelated glory.

"Yeah. It's not anyone I've met. Tall, skinny, blonde. Probably late forties."

"… _Wesker._"

"Who?" A look of confusion crossed his face and Matthew hastily passed it off as nothing, instead quickly crossing the room and accompanying the older man down over the stairs.

From behind him, he heard Greg mutter, 'how you don't land yourself on the psych ward from games like that is beyond me', and Matthew couldn't help but grin.

That would be a good reason to land on the psych ward. Sure the game-related paranoia and potential insomnia that would land him there would be a bitch to deal with, but he'd be pretty happy to end up there on account one too many hours playing survival horror games. Then he gave that a moment's thought, realizing he had never exactly equated 'happiness' to the psychiatric ward.

A mildly uncomfortable thought.

Straightening the hem of his sweater, Matthew absently finger-combed his messy blonde locks and shook his head. As always, the home beneath his smelt of freshly used cleaners and whatever it was Jade had cooked for dinner. This time around, it smelt like something coated in lots of herbs. Possibly salmon; he had eaten with them before, and that was always how she cooked her fish. Apparently it masked the after-smell.

"If you want," Greg said suddenly, causing Matthew to jump and nearly lose his footing as they went down over the flight of stairs that would bring them to the main floor. A choked noise left the business man behind him, and he shot McKnight's son a dirty look. Clearing his throat and passing it off as a cough, Greg was grinning when he spoke again: "If you want, you two can just tromp on up through the house instead of going outside and up over those stairs."

"That's a good thing, considering I don't have my keys and the door is locked," Matthew clucked, leaning over the railing and looking out into the porch to see who was there.

The man in the porch turned from looking out through the door to face the voices as they came down over the stairs. He had pale blonde stubble on his chin, and wavy shoulder-length hair surrounded a narrow face. Blue eyes - blue eyes he hadn't seen in so long - went wide despite the obvious exhaustion that filled them, and the smile that broke out across his face, lighting it up, nearly caused Matthew's heart to break with utter happiness.

Heart rising to his throat instead of breaking, eyes flying wide, Matthew sprinted down the rest of the steps without a word to the startled Greg. Without a warning to the man in the porch, he launched himself at him. Laughter, a weak, relief-filled sound, left the lanky blonde and arms were wrapped firmly around him. The embrace was reassuring and if anything that hold on him was what caused Matthew to break.

Feeling tears forming in his eyes and then rolling down over his cheeks, burning his skin, he buried his face in the man's shoulder and inhaled deeply, a choked noise leaving him. "_O-Oh my God-_"

"Shhh," Francis murmured softly, exhaling heavily as he ran a hand through Matthew's hair. One hand had settled on the center of his back. "Relax, relax. It's alright. Everything's okay." Matthew only cried harder and held on for dear life because he was suddenly petrified that if he let go, _Francis wouldn't be there_.

"Don't cry, Matthew, please." The words were spoken quietly into his ear; the arms around him tightened. He sounded almost desperate. "It's alright."

Saying nothing, the Canadian stayed there without moving, the hand on his back rubbing in steady, calming circles while the hand on the back of his head lulled him; the finance lawyer murmured quietly, reassuring him in French, lips pressed against his temple. Even though he didn't understand a lick of it, it had the desired effect.

(_I'm so sorry for everything, Matthew.  
__So, so deeply sorry._)

Inhaling deeply as he tried to quell the tears, the tiniest of smiles tugged at his lips; he still smelt the exact same as what he could remember. A thick cologne that made his nose itch, but it was distinctly his. He remembered the first time he really noticed it; he had been seven. Him, his mother, Jeanne and Francis had been sitting in the kitchen. It had been an Indian summer that year, and all Matthew could truly remember was being perched on his cousin's lap and having latched onto his tie, smelling it happily even though it made him sneeze. He could distinctly remember the way his mother laughed as he did so, eyes bright and amused, the way Francis and Jeanne did as well. The tears came harder with the frighteningly vivid memories and it took another moment to attempt calming down amongst his choked sobs. Arms around him tightened. Pulling away, he used his sleeve to wipe at his eyes and he gave a wet laugh, smiling at his cousin, quietly apologizing.

(_I don't even know where to start apologizing._)

Francis gave a weak smile - his own eyes were wet and bloodshot, no longer from just exhaustion - and he shook his head slowly. "Don't be," he said with a sigh. "There's no need to be. At all." The man cupped his cheek, looking his face over before shaking his head again, this time with a laugh. His thumb brushed over his cheekbone; it was as if he were trying to reassure himself that _yes_, he really _was_ there.

(_I hope you'll forgive me for not being there.  
__Just, please, don't hate me._)

Matthew just nodded, looking at the floor. Neither of them spoke. Turning his eyes to the Frenchman instead of staring at the tiles, he looked him over briefly, picking out where he had changed since he had last seen him, just before he had turned eighteen. He had aged, that was for sure. The lines around his mouth were deeper; the lines at the corners of his eyes as well. Wrinkles in his forehead were a bit deeper than he remembered them being; worry had created them. His hair had paled with age. What was he now, forty-seven? Forty-eight? He couldn't remember. There were bags beneath his eyes, and his usually immaculate, fashionable clothing was wrinkled. "You look awfully tired…"

Chuckling, the sound deep and warm, Francis smiled. "I got off the plane about an hour ago," he said. "Got a taxi to my hotel, dropped off my luggage and then came straight over. It's been a while since I've slept, let alone well."

Matthew groaned. "Why didn't you at least sleep before coming over? Did you sleep on the flight?"

"Couldn't," said the man with a shake of his head. "That, and I didn't exactly … feel like waiting a day to come and see you. I would have driven myself crazy with nervousness and anticipation. Would you want to wait another day when you to see someone you've been trying to locate for the better part of four years when you could go and see them right away?"

Ducking his head, Matthew nodded. It was easy to understand where he was coming from; had he been in that position, he would have felt the exact same way and he knew it. "I didn't know you were going to be in tonight," he said quietly, licking his lips and giving a wide grin. "Why didn't you call me in advance? I would have made you something to eat, or-"

"Oh, shut up," he laughed, adjusting his suit jacket. "I much rather the element of surprise. Your reaction was far too excellent to pass up on."

Flushing, Matthew shook his head and motioned for the older man to follow him. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Greg ducked into the sitting room, a smile on his face as he shoved the nosy, teary-eyed Jade back in as well. Chances were McKnight would find out about this within the hour.

"How about we go up to my apartment instead of just standing in the porch," he said with a laugh, turning on his heel. "We might be able to talk a little bit better that way." Francis kicked off his shoes and, along with his leather briefcase, picked them up and carried them up over the stairs beneath his arm.

Stepping into his apartment, Francis going in before him, Matthew shut the door behind him and watched as his cousin looked around his living space. Embarrassment crept upon him as he took in the messy state of his living room - there was a pile of (clean now, mind you; he wasn't Alfred) laundry sitting in the arm chair, yet to be folded. His dishes from dinner were still piled unwashed in the sink, and then there was the mess of the coffee table he had left behind. Art supplies covered the dining room table (he saw Bonnefoy eyeing them with a pleased look) and he had left a stack of novels.

Of course someone would come over when his apartment was a rare disaster zone. Of fucking course.

"A lovely little place you got for yourself. It feels awfully homey here," he commented. "And I don't mind the mess; it makes the place look lived in."

'_You should have seen the last place,_' Matthew thought, smoothing away the cold smile that was threatening to form. Francis didn't need to know about that; some things were better left unsaid, especially when fossilized hamster guts, no hot water or heating and an obscene rent was included.

Eyeing the table covered in candy, chips and soda, Francis shot him a wry grin. He jerked his head towards the mess. "Having a one-person party are we?"

Laughing, Matthew headed over to the kitchen and turned the light on over the stove. "You could say that," he said, adjusting his glasses as he grabbed down two mugs. Setting them on the counter, he moved to fill the kettle with fresh water before setting it down on the burner. "Coffee or tea?"

"Coffee, of course," the lawyer said with a laugh. "Don't you _dare_ lump me in with those god-awful tea drinkers."

Matthew looked over his shoulder, grinning. "A teaspoon of coffee, two of sugar and no milk, right?"

"I'm impressed," he mused aloud as he continued to survey his surroundings. "You still remember how I take my coffee."

"For one, mom used to suck at making your coffee whenever you came to visit, so I always did once I was old enough," he reminded him. "And that's how my boyfriend takes his. So I haven't had much of a chance to forget."

"_Boyfriend_?" Matthew shot his cousin a furtive look before moving to sit down on the sofa with him as the kettle heated up. Francis' eyes had widened, and he looked the slightest bit interested. "Oh, please, do tell. I need to hear all about who my little cousin is seeing."

Spluttering, cheeks reddening, Matthew couldn't look him straight in the eye at first; the man was grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Well, what do you … want to know exactly?"

"Name. Age. Location. Current employment. Various neuroses. Criminal background if there is one. Favourite sports team. Favourite music. Favourite position-" Matthew made a choked noise, earning loud laughter from the Frenchman "- and his favourite food. Go."

Floundering as he tried to remember each little detail, Matthew squirmed and then: "Alfred F. Jones. 27. He's from Lowell, but he lives in the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He's also the District Attorney for Manhattan and spends numerous hours volunteering. Various neuroses include: not having his cellphone on him at all times, the sound a toilet makes when it's filling, his comic collection being messed with, not knowing what to do with his spare time, being in a silent house and shaving at least twice a day. There's no criminal background that I know of, unless you include stealing his neighbour's cat because it was being mistreated. He's a fan of the New England Patriots. Favourite music is anything by Bob Dylan, Elvis Presley, Don Henley and Bruce Springsteen. Favourite food is anything that comes out of McDonalds, and he also enjoys Chinese, cigarettes and coffee for breakfast, and Greek food, as well as fine-dining and seafood. And that is my man in a nutshell."

"Ah-ah-ah," Francis chided, waggling his finger. "You left out one."

Matthew stared at his cousin, watching with a reddening face as the man's wicked grin grew wider and wider while the younger's face grew redder and redder.

"No I didn't," he muttered blackly, looking away pointedly and picking up the videogame controller as what was now a welcomed distraction.

"Oh, yes, yes I think you did," he taunted, blue eyes twinkling mischievously. He nudged the younger in the ribs with his elbow, scooting over to squash him against the arm of the sofa.

Heavy silence that bordered on combative hung between them, and Matthew finally broke. He hung his head, and when he spoke, he had to strain his ears to even hear himself speak: "… He told me he likes it when I, um ... ridehim."

_My face is on fire oh my God my face is on fire someone call the fire department I think it's going to fucking __**explode.**_

Francis practically howled with laughter, clapping his hands and then giving Matthew a congratulatory pat on the back that just about knocked the wind out of him. "You, my dear boy, are a work of art. A little Mona Lisa."

"I'm pleased to tell you that you haven't changed a bit, _Francis_," said Matthew dryly as he stood, running a hand down over his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. More laughter; the sound of the kettle whistling. "You have not changed one goddamn bit."

"I should hope that you're not implying that I'm some sort of pervert," Bonnefoy called after him as his cousin headed to the kitchen to pour up their drinks. "That's terribly cruel of you, if that's what you're getting at."

"Oh, no, I'm not implying anything like _that,_" he said in a dry voice. "Just that you have an unhealthy interest in everyone else's sex life. You should be, like, disgusted by my sexual activity. I'm your 'little cousin'."

"Don't give me that bullshit, Matthew," Francis chuckled, wiping at the corners of his eyes as his laughter tapered off. "I've known full-well that you've been at it since you were fifteen. Then, yes, it was gross. Very gross, actually. But you're twenty-two now; you're an adult in a committed relationship and it's quite normal to enjoy sex with the one you love. So I'm not at all disgusted by it. In fact, if I do say so, I would be mildly alarmed if you have no interest in extracurricular activities as such."

Staring at the cup of coffee he had poured for Francis, he considered his words and then shook his head with a weak laugh. He wasn't at all surprised. Leave it to him to take such a view on sex like that.

He hadn't changed one little bit, which was nice to see.

Bring their coffees over and setting his down on the table as he handed the other to Francis, Matthew moved to curl up on the end of the sofa. The lawyer twisted the mug around in his hand before inhaling, a smile crossing his face. "Smells excellent. You need to teach my wife how to make a nice cup like this; I forgot how good you were with this sort of thing, you little housewife."

Grinning, pointedly ignoring the comment, Matthew rubbed his nose. "How is she, by the way?"

Francis glanced over, smiling around the rim of the mug. "Jeanne is well," he said pleasantly. "As is Seychelle. They were both immensely pleased - especially Jeanne - when they found out I had managed to get in contact with you."

Matthew squirmed a little, smiling shyly. "How old is Seychelle now?"

"She just turned thirteen last month," he hummed. "What about you? How have you been? You've thinned out quite a bit, I must say, but you've always been a tiny one thanks to all those sports you were in. Much skinner than the last time I saw you though…"

Saying nothing at first, Williams just picked up his mug and stared at the milky coffee he made. While he knew the question would have come up eventually, and he knew he'd have to tell him everything, he didn't want to. It felt like everything would be ruined if he did. Francis frowned deeply at his silence, brow knit together as he took in the look on his cousin's face. But he didn't press. Just waited, ever the patient man.

Boundless patience. It must have been a lawyer thing.

"I've … I'm okay," he said, finally. "Actually, I'm feeling the best I have in a while. In a long while."

"Why do you say that?"

"I've been seeing a therapist going on three years in December. I'm on medication for depression and anxiety, but I'm not nearly half as bad as I used to be," he admitted, feeling his stomach coiling unpleasantly. He drained back some of the coffee despite how it practically scalded his mouth and throat on the way down.

"'Bad as you used to be'?" Francis asked tersely. He was sitting upright and had turned slightly to look at the artist beside him. Worried had etched itself into his face, deepening the lines. "What do you mean?"

Mouth cottony, Matthew felt his voice lodge itself in his throat. "Living on the streets didn't sit too well with me," he said finally, voice a whisper. "After Jason kicked me out, I didn't have anywhere to go. I still wasn't even close to coping with mom's death - hadn't even started. Gilbert's family had gone back to Germany. Gil was studying at Penn State. You were in France and I had no money and no passport. Nothing. I couldn't leave the country. There was no one I could get in touch with that would take me in. I was beyond beside myself, so I just … lived on the streets. Did what I could to make sure I didn't get my sorry ass killed."

(Did what he could to do make sure he didn't get his sorry ass killed, just so he could try to do it himself.)

A look of nausea had formed in his cousin's eyes. "Then how did you manage to get out of that?"

Licking his lips - they were parched, just like the rest of his mouth - he stared at the game screen. It still read 'You Are Dead'. "I … did some pretty stupid, desperate shit," he said with a weak laugh. "I was just so fed up with everything that I got liver-wrecking drunk and tried to kill myself. Almost managed to except for some people I knew dragged my unconscious, sorry ass to the nearest hospital and dumped me there."

The colour had drained from Francis' face and the mug he held trembled so dangerously that, to keep the liquid from sloshing up over the sides, he set it on the table and held his head in his hands. "That was the only time though, right?" he asked, voice shaking a little.

Matthew shook his head and looked away when he saw the pained look that went through Francis' eyes. The man looked like he was prepared to break down and cry right then and there. Instead of doing so, he took a shuddering breath and then sat back, eyes shut as he rubbed circles against his temple. "I … tried a good few more times after that. Hospitalized three times, once on the psych ward after leaving the ICU. My first attempt was in September, and then by December, after five more tries, I got caught for trying to hold up a convenience store. That was when the man that's my therapist bailed me out and I started to see him on a regular basis. I lived with him and his wife, and they helped me sort things out the best I could. There were another few attempts here and there, nothing major. A few of them I didn't even tell my psychiatrist about. It's only been since mid-January, though, that I've really started to come around."

"When…" his voice faltered and Francis looked away, staring out into the kitchen, face turned fully from Matthew's vision. Nervously, he wrung his hands. "When was your last attempt?"

"It'll be a year this December," said the artist quietly.

Francis said nothing at first, but he sank back against the sofa again and shook his head slowly. Mind blank, the artist didn't know what to say to try and make the older man feel better; he looked downright miserable and he couldn't even find it in himself to crawl along the small space of sofa that separated them to just sit next to him as if to say, 'hey, here I am. I'm alive if that counts for anything'. Couldn't even bring himself to say, 'everything's alright now, so you shouldn't trouble yourself with worrying about it.' He felt a creeping unhappiness settle in and he slumped a little as his stomach clenched. His eyes started burning while a thick lump clogged his throat.

Straightening slowly, Francis looked across the living room and scratched his brow. "I wish I had taken you with me to France when I was going to," he said in a low voice. "Your mother and I discussed it, the last going off when she got really sick. I thought taking you to Paris with me to live with Jeanne and I for a little while once you graduated would be a good idea. So you could clear your head. She thought so, too. But she passed before we could finalize the plans, everything happened the way it did and then, when I called Jason, he told me you were gone. No explanation; just gone. When I asked where, he just … hung up on me. I tried calling back later and it said the phone number didn't exist. If I had just brought you to France with me instead of waiting until you graduated, then so much of this could have been avoided. You wouldn't have had to spend four years of your life-"

"I hope you're not blaming yourself for any of this," Matthew said curtly, picking up his coffee and draining some of it back. Francis, eyes damp and heavy, looked over to his cousin and ran his hand through his hair. He looked raw.

"Only a little," said the Frenchman in a subdued voice.

"Don't," he said, trying to not sound pleading, "Honestly, as bad as things got, I'm to the point now that I don't know if I would want things to have gone differently. I mean, yeah, I've dealt with shit that I wouldn't wish upon anyone, no matter how badly I wanted to slam their face into a sidewalk and stomp them. But I wouldn't want to change any of it."

Francis nodded. He looked worn out, slumped against the sofa, hands twisted together in his lap as he stared out across the room. His eyes were vacant and, slowly, he moved forward to pick up his mug of cooling coffee. At least his hands weren't shaking nearly as bad as what they had been when he put the mug down first time around.

They sat there for some time after that, neither man speaking. Matthew continued to watch the television screen until his eyes watered and slipped in and out of focus. He wiped at them, biting back a sigh. Occasionally he would reach forward and grab a few candies, filling his palm with them and popping them half-heartedly into his mouth, puckering his lips at their sourness.

Bonnefoy, on the other hand, seemed to be lost in thought as he alternated between staring at the floor and out through the window closet to his end of the sofa. Tired eyes, rimmed red and shadowed with exhaustion, were heavily lidded and his mouth sagged around the corners. He looked like he felt miserable; Matthew knew damn well he was.

The shifting of material beside him; a sigh. Williams finally tore his burning eyes away from the screen.

"Well, at least you never died in a gutter," Francis finally said. "I guess that's one little blessing."

Wincing at the wintriness his words were filled with, Matthew drained back what was left of his warm beverage before standing. He crossed the room, placing the mug in the sink, filling it with water and then leaving it there to sit until he did the dishes in the morning. He dipped his fingers into the water and left them there. _Don't cry don't cry don't cry don't you dare cry, Matthew Williams. Don't you dare fucking cry._

For once, he didn't.

But it didn't make him feel any better.

Dumping the water from the mug and wandering back over to the sofa, dropping down to sit beside Francis, he propped his feet on the table and let his head fall back. The Frenchman moved to sit next to him, Matthew found it somewhere in him to smile and he lightly bumped the older man's side with his elbow, giving him a weak grin.

"I'm just glad I found you," Francis said, voice growing thick. He had his head bowed and was looking to the hands he had lumped together in his lap. "The past four years have been hell, Matthew. Complete and utter hell. Not comparable to what you've told me, not by a long shot, but to spend it all quietly assuming you were dead despite still trying to hunt you down?" He shook his head. "While I've never resorted to a professional, I can tell you that Jeanne has played psychiatrist for me on more than one occasion."

Which brought him to a question he had been dying to ask: "How _did _you find me, anyway?" Matthew asked, sitting up and bringing his legs up to curl them beneath his bum. "I'm surprised you didn't just call Gilbert or his parents."

"I lost their number, address and I couldn't remember their names to top it all off. It's hard to look up a name and number when you don't even have the name to go with it," he sighed. "And the only way I found you was because of Jeanne, actually. She was looking at some online art gallery - one of those travelling ones. It set up some sort of permanent gallery somewhere around here, in August or September I think. And she ran out of the computer room, screaming some nonsense about seeing you there. I thought it was absolute ludicrous, but I went in and checked all the same. Sure enough, that painting you did was there - well, the picture of the painting-"

"Street art. There's a difference, man, there's a _difference_."

"… And it's safe to say you haven't changed either. Still a pretentious little brat when you have the chance," he said with a hearty chuckle, a smile on his face as he looked to the young man beside him. Matthew laughed. "But, the bit of _street art _that you did was there on the wall. While it was under your name, there was also another name. A Lars something or other. I hunted down his contact information with the help of some professional friends of mine-" Professional, if Matthew could recall, being a friend affiliated with Interpol "-and I gave him a call. Asked him how he knew you. He told me he had been your art teacher throughout high school. So, I asked if he had seen you recently, or had even heard from you. Anything. And he said that he had been talking with you at the gallery opening. So, I managed to get your address off of him; he had misplaced your phone number. Tracked down the address, had a minor freak-out when the names that came up weren't anyone I had ever known you to associate with, but I called them all the same."

Matthew sighed quietly. "When you called, I didn't even know what to think," he said with a short laugh. "I couldn't process anything that was happening. Nothing made sense. You were the very last person I had expected to hear from. And I had no way of calling you up because I had lost your address and phone number, and I couldn't remember if you were still living in Paris, or if you had moved to Normandy like you had been thinking on doing."

Tousling his hair, Francis grinned at him before draining back the rest of his coffee - which had probably gone cold by now. The grimace that crossed his face was evidence enough.

Taking the empty mug from his cousin, he glanced back over his shoulder as his cellphone started to ring on the coffee table, sending little vibrations throughout the wood as it shifted along the surface.

"Would you mind getting that for me?" he asked as he started running the water.

The phone stopped ringing and then, when Francis spoke, Matthew burst out laughing: "_Allô, ceci est la résidence de Mathieu Williams. Comment est-ce je peux vous aider aujourd'hui?_"

Filling the sink partway with warm and sudsy water, Matthew rolled the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows and tossed in the cloth. Shivering at how hot the water was, he grabbed up his dinner plate and started to scrub it.

A moment of silence and then, in a voice with a thicker accent than usual. "Ah am zor-ee, but ah do naht speek ahny Eengliz." Quiet again and then: "No, no. No Eengliz. Zor-ee, zor-ee."

The Frenchman held the phone away from his mouth, covering the mouth piece. He was grinning wickedly. "I like this young man," he cackled. "He seems to be such a good sport."

Spluttering, hands dripping wet, he set the plate down on the rack and ran from the kitchen to wrestle the phone out of his cousin's hands, trying to smother the man's laughter. Shoving his wet and soapy hands into his face, Francis yelped and swatted at his younger cousin. The phone dropped to the floor and both of them made a dive for it. Matthew grabbed it up before he could.

They wrestled briefly, Matthew shoving his face away and plopping down on the arm of the chair, he panted, shooting Francis a dirty look. The grin he received in return was a shit-eating one. "Hello?"

"…. _What the hell was that."_

It was Alfred; no surprise there. He smiled. "That was my cousin, Francis," he said meekly. "He's French, in case you couldn't tell."

"_Oh, really? Never noticed. So I guess you're not doing your Resident Evil all-nighter now?_"

Laughter. Matthew ran a hand through his hair. "Not anymore. Are you still at the bar with the guys?"

"_Nah. Patriots were losing, so we all bailed; probably for the better - Jeff's stressing over some spreadsheet he has to hand in to his boss tomorrow and I think he's sitting on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Poor guy's miserable, even if it is kind of fun to watch him squirm. Mind if I come over? I wanna meet this French Fry._"

"You're a sadist. And of course you can come over. I'm sure French Fry-" a snort of indignation left Bonnefoy "-would love to meet you, too. Just knock when you come by; the door's locked."

"_You? Locking your door? What?_"

"There was no way I was sitting here playing Resident Evil, alone in the dark, without the door locked." A rustling sound caught his attention, and he glanced over to Francis, who was now helping himself to the bowl of chips and some of the Pepsi Max that was there. The older man looked over to him, pausing mid-chew. Rolling his eyes, Matthew mouthed the word 'pig'. The lawyer screwed up his nose and crossed his eyes before popping another few chips into his mouth.

Watching him, it was safe to say the food on the flight had been less than desirable; he normally avoided food like that, stating that he needed to keep his figure trim. To sit there and chow down on junk food like that? The food had definitely been shit.

Alfred's laughter filled his ear. "_How is it you can sit through any horror movie and read any horror novel without even twitching, but you play a videogame and end up terrified?_"

"There's a lot more emotional investment in playing a videogame than watching a movie, Al. I don't even know why you're asking me that when you're the one that almost cried while playing one of those Gears of War games. You should know all about emotional investment in videogames," Matthew babbled, rolling his eyes. "Don't even start an argument you will never win."

More laughter. "_Alright, alright. We'll discuss this at a later time. How does that sound?_"

"Sound excellent. See you in a bit."

Tossing the phone onto the table, Matthew ran a hand down over his face. "He's a child," he muttered, shaking his head and then looking over to his cousin. He was still chowing down on the chips. "I'm surrounded by children. Constantly."

"Who are you calling a child, child?" Francis demanded. "I am anything but a child; I am all man, all the time."

Matthew made a choked nose as he stood. "You tell yourself that," he advised, "and you can believe it all you want."

Lapsing into an easy silence, the artist crossed the room and headed back over to the sink, sticking his hands back into the water as he tried to find the cloth. It was somewhere in there, hidden out of view by the bubbles. The water wasn't as hot as before, either. Glancing back over his shoulder when he heard a phone ringing, Matthew paused but then smiled and went back to washing when he saw Francis answering his own phone. He spoke in quiet French, more than likely with his wife.

Tapping his feet on the tiling, he hummed quietly to himself as he scrubbed what was in the sink, placing each mug gently on the drying rack. While he had known he was going to have a good, quiet night, he hadn't expected it to turn out to be a night like this; he hadn't expected Francis, of all people, to show up. He had a bit of a feeling Alfred would end up calling and whining about wanting to come over considering they had barely seen much of each other over the week between working and crazy scheduling.

Between Alfred's days at the court house, his volunteering and then going back to his office to pull in even more hours what with program-planning and going over cases and various laws while meeting with board members and officers, and Matthew's own forty-plus hours a week (with Gilbert gone, the overtime he was racking up was almost mind-numbing), the time he'd devote specifically to paint - Alfred wasn't even allowed to breathe the same air as he did during that time - and then the time he had been spending helping Mathias with some of his art projects for school, if they had seen each other for three hours, that was it.

He sighed a little and dropped some of the utensils onto the rack. Maybe he'd be able to coax the lawyer into staying with him for the morning instead of going to watch the case; it would still be another several months before all the evidence was examined and put out for the jury to pass a verdict, so missing out on one session wouldn't kill him, especially when Chris would easily keep him up to date. Then, that way, given the next day was supposed to be raining, they could just stay in and do absolutely nothing; just laze around and watch movies or whatever.

Wiping the suds from his hands once he had let the water out of the sink, Matthew picked up a dry cloth and began to wipe the excess water from the cutlery and dishes. The sound of Francis speaking in low, calm tones filled the background. He also hadn't realized how much he had missed the sound of the Frenchman speaking, either; he had a melodic sort of pattern to his voice that made the artist relax even when he wasn't trying to.

No sooner had he placed the last mug in the cupboard and hung up the slightly damp dishcloth to dry in front of the stove and there was a heavy knock on his front door. Four short but firm raps on the window panes. Glancing at the stove clock, he pursed his lips; it couldn't have been no more than fifteen minutes ago when he had gotten off the phone with Al. The hands read that it was just a bit after eleven-thirty. He must have already been on the way over when he called.

Immediately perking up and tugging his sweater sleeves down, Matthew headed to the door. Cursing when he stubbed his toe on the little table right around the corner - it happened every goddamn time, he swore it - he limped the rest of the way down the dark hall and unlocked the door, grinning when he saw the lawyer there.

Yawning as he walked in past the younger man, Al grinned at him as he toed off his shoes. "I still can't believe a videogame is enough to scare you into locking your door," he chuckled lightly.

"Hello to you, too, asshole," Matthew scoffed, rolling his eyes as he looked the man over. "And who goes to a bar to watch football in a suit?"

"Because both Chris and I came straight from the court house," he huffed as Matthew loosened his tie with an eye roll. "So instead of wasting time to go back and change, we just picked up the guys and went straight to the bar."

"I guess that makes enough sense," murmured the Canadian as he discarded his partner's tie on the chair by the door, fingers moving to undo the top two buttons of his dress shirt. As he did this, Alfred shucked off his suit jacket and threw it down into the chair, masking another yawn. Running his fingers over the patch of skin he had revealed, Matthew gave a tiny smile before looking to the man. Alfred was watching him, looking his face over briefly before settling and he grinned. "Have fun?"

Chuckling, he shrugged. "It was good fun until the Patriots started losing and we had to resort to cat-calling," Alfred said in a flat voice. "But at least it was just the season opener. There're still plenty of games ahead for them to haul ass. It was when Jeff started flirting with the _female _bartender that we decided to pack up and go."

"Jeff? A _woman_?"

"Yep."

"Poor guy really must be stressed."

"Very stressed. I almost feel bad for him. Almost." Al hummed as he pressed forward to give him a lazy kiss, sliding an arm around Matthew's waist as the latter placed his hands on the former's shoulders, smiling against his lips. A week was far too long, and he pressed himself flush against the American as the arm around his slim waist tightened; apparently Alfred felt the same way as he coaxed the other's mouth open. When he pulled away, Alfred was grinning as he started to roll his sleeves up to his elbow. "What have you been eating dude? You taste like a sugar factory."

"Sour cherry blasters and watermelon candies," Matthew laughed, slipping out of the lawyer's grasp and turning to head back out into the living room instead of leaving his cousin by himself. Alfred quickly tagged along behind him, moving his hands to the slighter man's shoulders to manoeuvre him out of the way of the table he would have otherwise walked into. Again.

(At least someone was willing to save his toes; being squished was always a nasty way to go. Ask any cockroach within a fifty mile radius of Times Square and it would agree.)

Leading his partner into the living room and flopping back down on the sofa - Francis was, at the same time, shoving his phone back into his pocket - he grinned at his cousin. The look was returned and then they both directed their attention to the lawyer.

Alfred stopped short and stood with his hands in his pockets, shuffling awkward for a brief moment before moving to sit down on the love seat, hunched forward a little and watching the other two.

"_So,_" Francis drawled, inching closer to the end of the sofa, bringing himself closer to the worried-looking American. McKnight and Gilbert had scarred him for life, more than likely, and had permanently put him on edge; July sky eyes flickered nervously from the Frenchman's face to Matthew's with a pleading sort of look - Matthew proved to be of no use for he just grinned wickedly - and then he looked back to the man edging towards him. "_You're _Alfred F. Jones? My charming little cousin's boyfriend?"

"Y-Yes?"

Glancing back over his shoulder to the Canadian who had picked up the videogame controller and was starting to play the game again, Francis waggled his eyebrows. "While I'm no man-canoodler, you have impeccable taste," he commented shrewdly. Matthew felt his face heat up, unable to help the grin that spread across it. Alfred's face had grown rather rosy, too. "You know damn good and well how to choose them."

"Yeah, I'd say I have pretty good taste for the most part," Matthew hummed distractedly. "And I have a fuck load of patience, too. And tolerance. We can't forget tolerance."

A pillow collided with the side of his head, Francis burst out laughing and Alfred was grinning roguishly at him from the love seat that now had one pillow instead of two.

Pausing the game and pointing at the DA, he arched an eyebrow as he glared at him. "Don't start what you can't finish, Jones," he warned.

Sitting back and holding his hands up in a defensive position, he was still grinning wickedly. "Start something? _Me_? I'd never do anything like _that _Mattie. I can't even believe you would suggest something like that. You're awful to me." He looked at Francis. "Can you even believe him, saying I'd do something like that?"

Francis shook his head piteously. "No, I can't. I wouldn't even want to fathom an accusation like that," he said, doing his best to smooth out the smile at the corners of his mouth. "He could be terribly cruel as a child, you know, so maybe it's just something he's never grown out of."

"That doesn't surprise me," Alfred said, smiling lovingly at his fuming lover. "Not one little bit."

"I hate you both so much," the Canadian snapped, sinking down into the sofa and glaring at the television. He was back to where he had started, and he had to go through killing those two zombies all over again. But, with this new-found motivation of sorts, spurned on by the two smirking idiots he was sharing a room with, he was feeling the right drive to do so.

Toning out the voices of the two men as they started to chat about their work - 'So, you're a district attorney? You're awfully young to be one, how did that happen?' - Matthew felt himself relaxing into the cushions.

Like when he had met Lars, the two men got along well enough with one another right away; from Francis' easy posture, none of it was forced, either. Alfred seemed comfortable enough as well; he was using hand gestures as he spoke, which spoke volumes of how secure he felt. When he was around someone he wasn't comfortable with, his hands were still, usually tucked into his pockets. When it came to his job, when he was with the guys or with him, his hands were practically flying all over the place to accompany whatever it was he was prattling on about.

Right now it was about his job and how he had managed to land it so early on in his career, something that rarely happened from the way it sounded; most people, according to what his partner was saying, had to go through many years of being a lawyer before even being considered for the _assistant _program. Alfred and Chris happened to fluke into being in the right place at the right time and, given that they both came from families with good names and an extensive amount of money and a history of public funding, they happened to land themselves jobs within their first six months of graduating from Harvard.

Once it got to that point, Matthew pinched his tender nose with a wince before focusing once more on the game. He had already gotten past the two zombies all over again and was edging Jill down along the hall, holding his breath because he knew that goddamn dog was going to come bursting through the window at any given moment.

When it did, he was actually ready for it, gun drawn and he lodged two bullets into the dog before it dropped to the floor with a twitch before blood stained the tacky carpet beneath it.

Snuffing through his nose, righting his posture - '_he's getting into the game now,_' he half-heard Alfred comment, '_just watch. This is going to get funny_' - and sitting on the edge of the sofa, feet planted firmly on the floor. One dog down; the rest of the hall to go. He was so fucking ready for this shit it hurt.

Rounding the corner at a run, a startled, choked noise left him when another dog came barrelling through a window at his character. With a curse he drew his feet up onto the sofa and shrank back as quickly as he could against the back of the couch as the controller vibrated. Pained yells came from Jill as he hauled her back once she had knifed the dog, loosening its grip on her. He fired a few shots, laying the infected dog out, and then paused the game, heart battering the inside of his ribcage.

Calmly placing the controller on the table, with slow, deliberate movements and feeling the eyes of the two, now silent men on him, Matthew picked up the bottle of Pepsi Max and poured it into the glass he had drained much earlier in the evening. Capping it, he brought the glass to his lips, sipped it daintily and then sank back against the cushions. Turning to his cousin once he felt relatively calmer, Matthew gestured to the floor with his head, frowning. "I meant to ask you earlier, but if you dropped all your stuff off at your hotel, then why did you take that briefcase with you?"

Expression collapsing in on itself, Bonnefoy ran a hand through his hair and held it before letting go. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask until sometime later," he muttered, "but I guess I forgot how inquisitive you are. We have a few things to discuss. In private, preferably."

Matthew shook his head, shrugging. "We can talk about it in front of Al," he said softly. A grateful looked passed through his partner's eyes. "There's nothing to worry about."

Quiet for a moment, he watched Alfred, lips pressed tightly together. Then he nodded, reaching for the black leather case he had shoved beneath the coffee table. "I … discovered three years back that half of your mother's hospital expenses were never paid for, nor were some of her debts."

Matthew felt the colour drain from his face, leaving him feeling like a humanoid ice chunk from the roots of his hair right down to his toes. Alfred's brow furrowed and he looked between the two men, expression concerned.

"W-_what_?"

No. There was no way that could be right.

Francis nodded, grim. "I managed to get about four thousand of it paid off within the first year-" Matthew felt sick and swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat "-but then when they realized that I'm not _immediate _family, they refused to accept any further payments from me, given you were written down in her will to inherit everything. Which also meant you inherited her bills and debts, as you were aware of."

"And they wouldn't let you pay any of it off, despite the credit companies never having heard from me?" Matthew demanded, incredulous.

"Not once they found out," he said with a sigh. "If I could have paid it all, I would have. In fact, I'm still willing to do so."

Alfred looked like he was about to say something, but he shut his mouth, biting his lip and staring at the floor.

"No, no, I'll … find a way to finish paying it off," Matthew said quietly, staring numbly at the floor. Francis had probably paid off most of it anyway, so there wouldn't be too much of a problem with it, right? He could handle three or four thousand dollars.

He felt ill and each time he swallowed against the burning in his throat, he thought he was going to be sick. "How much do I owe them?"

"… Close to ten grand." Francis was chewing on his lower lip; Alfred's face was ashen.

Oh. Okay.

That was … a lot of money.

More money than what he had, or would see within the next six to seven months.

At first there was no reaction from the Canadian. He couldn't think; he couldn't breathe. His body just stopped responding and he sat there rigidly, staring with widening eyes at his cousin. Slowly, it started to register with him. Ten grand. He owed ten grand. Jason had said he would pay for the remaining half of his mother's treatment - the chemo, the radiation, the pills. And then he was to pay off the other half of her remaining debt from when they had the farm in Alberta. That had amounted to almost twelve thousand, with the interest already built up.

Looks like he hadn't.

So here he was, four years later and ten thousand dollars in the hole, blindly going about and thinking everything was wonderful and sunshine and roses and daisies.

Thinking all that when it was far from it.

"Ten thousand…"

"I'm sorry, Matthew," Francis said quietly. "I had considered paying the whole thing in full because I had feared something like that would happen, but-"

"Fuck off with the apologies, Francis," Matthew said weakly. "It's not your fault and for once it's not mine, either. It's Jason. And if I could get my hands on that fucker, I'd murder him. I'd break his fucking neck if I could, or I'd hit him with a car. Maybe both. But this is far from being your fault."

Staring at the coffee table, Matthew covered his face as he tried to breathe normally despite the nausea in his gut. What was he going to do? Last time around, the payments he had made had all been gradual, and he had dipped into the savings fund his mother had for him for university, used all the money he had made from working, used all the tips he had gotten. This time, though, he had nothing. Maybe four thousand in the bank, and what he lived on from pay-to-pay. Nothing more, nothing less. The other difference was this had to be paid in full, lest he wanted more interest to accumulate.

And that was when his stomach turned. Standing, teetering off-balance for a moment as the world spun and twisted unrelentingly, Matthew staggered before he made a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time since he had moved in, he didn't bang into the end table. Tears had worked their way into his eyes, and his chest had constricted to the point of actually causing him pain; he swallowed constantly, trying his best to fight back the rising vomit. Francis moved to get up and go after him, looking panicked, but Alfred pulled him back down to sit, shaking his head.

Matthew was grateful as he bolted down the hall; he didn't exactly want an audience as he puked his guts up.

Door shut behind him, Matthew swallowed back the quickly rising vomit before turning the water on in the sink, running it full-blast as he bent over the toilet and heaved. Kneeling, glasses discarded on the floor and his hands raked through his hair to keep it out of the way, he retched violently, tears rolling down over his cheeks at the same time.

Gagging until it was nothing more than dry retching that sent pain flaring through his stomach, Matthew grabbed some toilet paper and wiped his mouth, dropping it with the rest of the mess. He shut the cover, flushed it and then let his head hit the plastic lid once he had the water shut off. An icy sweat covered his body. Keeping his head up, which was heavy and everything around him was spinning and it was so hard to focus on anything. Groaning, Matthew drew his knees to his chest. There was no way he could afford ten thousand dollars. No goddamn way. Arms wrapped over the back of his head, covering himself the best he could; he tried his best not to cry.

_I'm not completely fucked. I swear I'm not; I'll just pick up a second job, empty my bank account of what I have. I'll use the money from my second job to pay for rent, and then what I make now will all be used to pay off those debts. That's not too awful. I've done it before; I can easily do it again. I'll just forgo university for another while, at least until everything is paid off._

('_Don't you think that's being a little crazier than usual?' _the Lamp would ask disdainfully if he had any way of hearing his thoughts from the bedroom. '_You're fucked and you know it, boy._')

_I'll need a few more pills than usual though. Just to be on the safe side._

He didn't know how long he stayed in there, curled up the way he was, but he eventually heard the door creak open. His head was leaden; it was impossible to lift. The door clicked shut. A warm body pressed close to his a moment later, arms and legs wrapped around him and he was held tightly. Finally lifting his head, neck stiff and sore, he looked to Alfred. The lawyer watched him before pressing a short kiss to his forehead, hand cupping the back of his head.

Pressing his cheek to the man's broad shoulder, Matt shifted himself around to wrap his legs around his mid-section to curl in against him. "Alfred, I'm fucked," he whispered, voice breaking. "I'm so fucked."

('_So good to see you know yourself,' _the Lamp chuckled. '_Now that we've established that, do something about it._')

"No, you're not Mattie." There was a note of firm conviction in his voice. "Listen, I'm more than willing to pay all that off for you."

Balking, he pushed away and held the man at arm's length. "_No,_" he said, voice cracking. "I'm not letting you blow that much money on something like that."

"B-Blow my money?" he spluttered, incredulous. "Matthew, this is not blowing my money. This is far from blowing my money. This is the complete opposite of that."

He shook his head. "In your eyes it isn't," he muttered, "but I think it's a waste. You have better things to spend your money on."

Alfred laughed outright, but it was a cold sound. "Better things to spend my money on?" he demanded, incredulous. "You're fucking hilarious. List five things, other than the basic necessities, that I can spend my money. So this excludes bills, food, gas and minor repairs. Go."

He sat there, thought about it for what felt like ages, and then slumped when what he had already mentioned were the only things that came to mind.

"Please?" Alfred whispered. "I've never been able to do anything for you, and you've done so much for me. Like, this is the best way I can help, and I know it will. The things I spend my money on are just unnecessary indulgences, and you fucking know it. But this - I can actually do something good for you with this. And then you won't be fucked for money. Can I? Please?"

(_But you _have_ done so much for me, _he wanted to tell him. _You've done more for me than I ever thought possible. So you don't need to do anything.)_

Those words, however, stayed lodged traitorously in his throat, unwilling to go any further than his vocal cords. Licking his lips, he looked around the room, frantic. He couldn't let Alfred do this. "B-But where are you going to get ten grand, Al?"

"… My bank account?"

"Don't get smart with me," Matthew hissed, narrowing his eyes. "How can you expect to just haul that much money out of nowhere, eh?"

"You don't have any idea about how much money I'm sitting on right now, do you?" Alfred asked in a flat voice. Hesitating, Matthew shook his head.

Jones laughed a little; it was an acidic sound. "I didn't pay for my university education, my father did. I've never _had _to work a job flipping burgers or cleaning floors or stocking shelves. I've never had to pay for anything myself until I bought my apartment here in Manhattan - and I paid for it in cash, Matthew. In fucking _cash. _My vehicles I've paid for in cash, all the trips I've gone on since high school - my trip to Thailand, my trips to England, my trip to Moscow, to Berlin, Madrid, Hong Kong, to South Korea - have all been paid for in either cash or by someone else. Half of the money I had been given first time around for university I gave to OXFAM and then the other half I spent on buying different parts of various rainforests and naming them after relatives. I have credit cards for the sake of having something to pay off every month other than the usual bills; otherwise I'd use my debit card for everything. I'm the definition of a fucking trust fund baby. For what I've managed to bank from pay-to-pay, what I have saved from the allowances I was given as a kid and a teenager, what I had set aside for me, and from the fact that I'm set to inherit half of my father's estate and his money, I'll be able to retire by the time I'm fifty. That's in twenty-three years, man."

"So, letting you pay off my debt is … doing _you_ a favour?" Alfred nodded, a grin lighting up his face.

From the look on his face, it really would be doing him a favour. And, he couldn't exactly call it charity. Well, it sort of was. But Alfred was his boyfriend, so that made it not as bad to agree to take it. And he did need it, desperately…

Matthew let his head hit the man's shoulder, muttered a 'do whatever the fuck you want' and Alfred gave a jubilant-sounding laugh before tightening his grip on his partner.

"It's a good thing you agreed," he chuckled, "cause I already told Francis I'd pay for it, and I was already after transferring the amount to another account so I can take it out tomorrow."

Feeling a little bit better about everything (or maybe the right word to use was bitter because here he was again, with someone taking care of him because he couldn't help himself), he hit the lawyer's chest lightly. He let his hand rest on the center of his torso, blinking back tears and shaking his head. "Thanks," he whispered.

Swiping his thumb along his lower lashes, Alfred kissed him softly, cupping his cheeks. "Don't worry about it," he sighed against his lips before giving him another lingering kiss. He moved to stand, bring the artist up with him, helping set him on his feet as he pulled him close and pressed their foreheads together. They were practically eye-level and it made him smile. "Like I said, we're doing each other a favour."

Giving a small laugh, Matthew shook his head and finger-combed his hair out before tugging themselves towards the door, Alfred whining and refusing to relinquish his grip. It made walking back into the den awkward, both of them waddling as the lawyer chewed on his ear and kissed the space behind it, blowing cool air on his dampened skin. Shivers ran through the Canadian and he squealed at the sensation, trying to shrug him off. The American, however, was worse than a leech. Snickering, tightening his arms around his partner's narrow waist, he continued to chew on the top of his ear, to tickle his tummy and keep kissing the sensitive patch of skin just behind his ear.

Twisting his body to get the lawyer off of him, the Albertan lost his footing with a yelp. Startled laughter left Al and they flopped on the sofa, the larger man lying on top of him, which earned a startled yell of 'get off of me you fat fucker!' and a slew of offended-sounding 'fuck you, Matthew Williams I am not fat you're just a brittle-boned bitch!' followed.

Francis sat slumped in a chair in the dining room, arm dangling over the back, but the scene caused the Frenchman's haggard face to brighten up in a smile. "I take it everything has been taken care of?" he asked quietly, moving his hand to mask a yawn.

Nodding, Jones grinned roguishly. "It took a bit of convincing, but yeah, everything's good. I'll go to the bank with him some time tomorrow. Everything'll be handled from thereon in."

His cousin shut his eyes, and nodded. "Thank God you're not equally stupid as stubborn, Matthew."

Unsure of whether he should have felt insulted by that or not, he decided to pass it off and instead turned his focus to the weight caking him into the chesterfield. Lying on the sofa with Alfred flattening him into the cushions and refusing to move, Matthew gave an accepting groan instead of shoving his hand into his face (like he originally wanted to) before twisting his head so he could look at the lawyer. The smile he was given was an affectionate one, accompanied by a peck on the nose and a 'love you, Pet'.

Shaking his head with a laugh, he sighed and then looked to Francis. "Save me?" he asked half-heartedly.

Watching the couple for a moment, he grinned. "That's not worth saving you from," he teased. "Let me know when you're _really _in dire need of help."

Matthew just huffed and allowed the lawyer to stay there, after a while begrudgingly sliding his arms around his waist, earning a smile (_that made his heart flutter, skip a beat, stop for a second a do a few other crazy things all at once_).

And Francis just sat quietly to the side, a smile on his face as he wondered to himself just when Matthew had grown up, how fast it had happened, and who to start thanking for Alfred's existence when he clearly needed it the most.

* * *

SURPRISE. I actually managed to finish this chapter way quicker than I thought possible despite the amount of hours I've spent at work over the past two weeks, or at least since I finished the last chapter. But yeah! I'm leaving in nine days now, so definitely no chapters any time soon. I don't want to have to leave mid-chapter, come back eleven days later and then try to pick up where I left off from; that's way too hard, I find.

But I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! And ahhh, sorry I never got around to answering all your reviews guys, but trust me, I've read them lots (they tend to brighten my day especially if it's been a particularly shitty one ;w; )

Thanks again guys, and have a great Easter for those of you that celebrate it!


	35. Chapter 35

**CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.**

Although he was unsure as to how he managed to pull it off, Jeff managed to pay off all his student loans three years in advance. He had woken up on a Monday morning, to the sound of the mail hitting the floor after coming through the slot in his door. Anyway, sleeping on the floor by the television had been uncomfortable - it had been the first place he had dropped his work bag in front of the TV, and then when he realized he had to climb a flight of stairs to get to his sleeping loft, he had said fuck it, dropped to the floor and slept there in his work clothing.

But all the same, he had woken up to the sound of the mail hitting the floor. Once he had gone through it - chain letter, flyers, junk mail, Get Your Free Air Wick Air Freshener Now!, junk mail, light bill, You Should Probably Pay This Bill Tomorrow Or You're Fucked - he had found the letter from Harvard. The moment he had seen it, he felt his gut drop because _oh sweet fuck they didn't get my last payment and they're going to send their mafia and they're gonna slice the muscles off the back of my legs oh man I am doomed. Or they've upped their interest rates and now they're gonna tell me that I actually owe them in the ballpark of another several thousand dollars. Bastards. _

Apparently he had already finished paying everything off, and the last deposit he had made was actually being returned to him. All $7,000 of it.

It was bordering close to being something he could almost consider a miracle. Three years earlier than he had intended, and his debts were all paid off. Every last one of them. The only thing he had to worry about now was paying off his mortgage, bills and his car. And it meant he could go back and get his masters in business and economics sooner than he had planned if he really wanted to.

Jeff said it was because he was a high-ranking sorcerer and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

Allan said it was because he was a workaholic with no sex life, insomnia and a detrimental coffee addiction.

(Four points for you, Allan Coco!)

Alfred and Chris, choosing the neutral side of things, decided that they had absolutely no opinion on the situation. No opinion whatsoever other than the fact that it brought them sheer happiness when Jeff decided they were all going out partying and he was buying them all their drinks for the duration of the evening. They had long since deemed themselves the Wise Men of the group.

Either way, he had seven grand to fuck around with. Which called for some serious rounds of drinks, a new expresso machine to save on the constant funding he was providing for Starbucks, and a four day holiday from spreadsheets, policies, neurotic elderly people unable to comprehend the most basic elements of their life insurance, and trying to find the best loopholes for said elderly persons.

First and foremost were the drinks; everything and everyone else could wait their goddamn turn.

Hanging out at the back of their usual downtown Manhattan haunt, the four (stooges) had claimed a booth for their own nefarious reasonings and were already on their fourth round of drinks. Matthew had decided to bail on their shenanigans, given that Gilbert had returned from California the night before and, despite suffering some serious jet lag, they were going to another bar and partying themselves sick with Antonio, Mathias, Ivan and a few other people that he had apparently gone to school with - he smiled a little at recalling the conversation they had had before going out, and he had been unable to help but laugh a little at just how nervous his lover had been at the thought of being around some people he hadn't seen since he had graduated.

Content to let Matthew run off and do his own thing, because it meant neither of them had to exactly worry about being the designated driver for the night - thank God for cabs for that one reason - Alfred sunk back into the comfortable velour seating, beer glass in hand. As much as he wanted to get up and go dancing, the glass in his hand was appealing. Way too appealing, actually. It also required energy he just did not have; being awake since six and running on only four hours sleep was just about wrecking him. The fact that there were people that did that on a regular basis blew his mind. The fact that he was dating a person that did it on a regular basis blew his mind.

Sipping the beer and grimacing when a bit of foam got up his nose, he snorted, almost choking on it before setting the glass back down. The other three were too engrossed in their conversation to take notice of his choking.

Wiping where liquid dribbled down his chin and just under his nose with the back of his hand, leaning his weight on the table. They were contemplating ordering another bucket of beer. Jones perked up, squirming closer. Another bucket of beer sounded absolutely fantastic. Getting a bucket of beer for himself sounded even better. But he wouldn't do that because for one, Jeff would beat him to a snot if he tried to spend any money - "Dude, this is my evening and I am buying the drinks, and if you don't like it you can kindly mosey along and fuck yourself on a nuclear missile." Otherwise, the only money he had was for a cab back to his place. Or to Matthew's, if he felt like harassing his partner, who would more than likely be as hungover as all sin.

Matthew had explicitly told him about five hours ago what he and Gilbert were planning on achieving, and that if he showed up at around five or six am, drunk and expecting to cuddle, that he could prepare to receive an elbow in either the face or more tender regions of his body and he would feel _zero fucking remorse_.

But if he showed up at Al's place, or his own with Alfred there waiting for him, at that time then it was perfectly okay. Then they could cuddle all they wanted.

(He said his logic was even better than his Lamp's, and Alfred decided to keep his comments about his lover's sanity to himself. Mainly because he liked having his jaw in one piece and his dick attached to his body.)

Picking his cigarette up out of the ashtray and taking a drag, he let the smoke out through his nose before throwing in his two cents to the men in the process of debating more alcohol and how to go about ordering it: "I think we should do a double round."

The guys looked at him. "Oh?" Jeff asked, grinning. "Why's that?"

"Elementary my dear Jeff," Alfred said. "We won't have to wait half as long for the next round when we already got it there in front of us. So we should get eight beers at a time instead of four. And who knows, some bars offer discounts when you purchase a double round."

Pointing at the attorney, Jeff cackled as he waved down a waitress with his other hand. "I like your thinking, Jones," he declared. "Always have, always will."

"That's cause you two share the same wavelength when it comes to drinking," said Chris in a flat voice, hands resting at the bottom of his glass.

Alfred arched his eyebrow. "And I don't see you denying the fantasticness of my idea."

"Well, I didn't disagree with you-"

"So, you're saying my idea was good, and that I'm right?"

Pulling back a little, Chris stared at him. "Basically. It _is _a good idea when you think about it, as long as the booze comes with a lot of ice."

Standing and slapping his hand on the table, the lawyer wore a victorious look on his slightly flushed face. "Ha! I win!" he said loudly. "You have _never _agreed with me on anything, and you've never told me I had a good idea. I. Fucking. Win."

Floundering, Chris spluttered and shook his head. "I never said-"

"Yes you did!" Alfred said in a shrill voice, pointing at him. "Yes you did! I have witnesses and if I need them to back it up they will, right guys?"

Shrugging, Allan drained back what was left of his beer as Jeff gave their newest order to the confused-looking barista. "He does have a point, Chris," he said. "Why I don't know, but you _did _tell him it was a good idea and that you agreed with him."

"But I'm _drunk_," Chris groaned. "That should cancel it out completely. Booze impairs judgement, right?"

"Oh shut up, you sore loser," Alfred said smugly, sitting down and folding his arms behind his head. "You just can't handle admitting to my sheer brilliance."

Chris swore, shooting him a particularly dirty look before draining back what was left of his beer.

"Maybe I should mark this down on a calendar or something," Jones contemplated, grinning at how easily riled up the other lawyer was. "It'd make for a good yearly celebration."

"Dude, I will break you," threatened Chris. "And I will enjoy every moment of it."

Alfred laughed. "I'll use Matthew as my personal-shield-guard-dog hybrid."

"I wouldn't argue that," Jeff said as the waitress walked away. "That fucker will pour an ice cold drink all over your crotch and he will ruin your favourite pants. He is soulless."

Turning his attention from Chris to the other, Alfred shook his head. "That was forever ago. How are you still all bent up over that?"

"Two words about the Ice Queen," he said in a voice that was barely audible over the music in the bar. "Favourite. Pants. He ruined them, man, and he totally shut me down before I even had a chance to start."

"He tends to do that," the lawyer snorted, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. There was a fond look in his eyes. "Trust me. It's his thing. And he's good at it."

"What _else _is he good at?" Jeff asked, expression turning devious. Green-gray eyes glinted wickedly and he pursed his lips. "I'm sure he has a few other _talents._"

Choking into his glass, Alfred spluttered and had to get thumped on the back by the slightly grudging lawyer next to him (he was probably preventing him from choking just for show; hey guys look at me I'm being a _good friend_). "That's for me to know, and you to _not_ find out."

Jeff scoffed, waving the DA off with an affronted expression. _I buy you drinks and this is the thanks I get? _was what it seemed to say. "You're such a louse," he sighed, dramatically shaking his head. A bark of laughter left Alfred. "I mean, c'mon, humour a bro?"

"I'd rather not," he muttered around the mouth of his glass, dangling his cigarette between his knuckles as he sipped his beer. "You're free to imagine all you like, if that makes you feel any better." A shudder passed through Chris a moment after he said that, and Alfred slapped him over the back of the head without even disturbing the ash on the tip of his smoke. "Fucking pervert."

"You're the one that told him to imagine, thus creating an unstable chain of events," said Chris. "So you're the one that's a fucking pervert, you fucking pervert."

"It's just a figure of speech, you idiot-"

"Or let's just fix the whole problem before it even starts," Allan instructed with a bright grin, "and we can say you're _all_ perverts."

"Yourself included," Jeff said, nodding sagely as he tasted his vodka. He pulled the glass away and admired the contents for a moment. "Mm, Tropicana and Finlandia. This is _gorgeous. _I need more of this European beauty in my body."

"Myself include-" he stopped and narrowed his eyes. "You can go and fuck yourself, good sir."

"And who's buying everyone's drinks tonight?" reminded the Texan with a cold-sounding, authoritative voice. Wills was smiling smugly, cheek propped in his palm as he twirled his ice cubes around in his drink, using his finger to propel the little ice chunks through the alcohol before picking up one to pop in his mouth and munch on. A shiver ran through Alfred as he heard the ice breaking between his teeth, imagining the sensation against his own teeth.

Unable to reply right away, Allan stared blankly at the blonde. Once the programmer's silence persisted longer than a few minutes and the look on his face turned to one of frustration, he just slammed back the rest of his beer and glared out across the center of the bar.

"Yeah, that's right," he said, settling back against the back of the booth, arms over his chest. "I think there's a damn good chance that it might be me."

Muttering viciously beneath his breath in a string of vile-sounding Spanish - Alfred found himself a bit frightened when he took a moment to consider what it was he said, the nasty little threat that involved Jeff's nether regions and a hot iron poker - Allan gave Jeff this worrying sort of death glare that caught even the Texan in question off-guard. That had been nasty.

Honestly, when he thought about it, sometimes their friendship was terrifyingly similar to what he and Matthew had been like during the first two months or so - or it was like Matthew being friends with someone just like himself and feeling the exact same way towards the mirror image of himself as he had felt towards the lawyer in the first place. To top it off, that mirror image had to feel the same way, too. A wholly terrifying consideration.

While they had been best friends since preschool, there were times when they still had to gag the urge to beat the other into some sort of senseless submission. A quarter of the time they decided to not even bother with fighting back the urge and they'd just knock the shit out of each other.

It was actually kind of alarming at times.

Not entirely liking where things could end up going, Alfred clapped his hands, laughing awkwardly. "I thought Vanessa and Chris were coming tonight, too?"

Turning his attention from the obvious growing desire to throttle his fellow southerner, Allan grunted. Chris nodded, proving to be the more useful of the two. "I think they might be stopping by later," he said. "I know they were considering it, or at least Vanessa was. More than likely she'll show up around eleven-thirty or so, but whether or not both of them do, I 'unno."

"One is better than none," Alfred said with a lascivious wink.

Biting the corners of his mouth, Chris ran a hand down over his face before groaning. "And what about you, huh?" he demanded. "Where's Matthew? Since when does he ever miss out on a chance to get drunk for free?"

"That's because his friend got back a month earlier from California than what he thought," Alfred said with a crooked grin. It was kind of scary how well his friends knew the Canadian. "He wasn't expecting him back until mid-December, so they're off elsewhere with a bunch of their friends, laying claim to some bar down yonder road in celebration."

"Man, we should have either just crashed their party, or we should have just dragged them all along with us and just had one big ol' bash," Jeff said with a groan. "That would have been fuckin' _fantastic_."

"I'd call Mattie up and tell him and the guys to c'mon over, but I've already gotten one drunk- or stoned-text from him. I can't decide which one it is 'cos it's a little more incoherent than usual."

"He's naturally incoherent the moment you put alcohol in his body whether it gets him wasted or not," Allan snorted.

"Yeah, he tends to end up a bit of a state when he's drunk-"

"_Tends _to?" Chris looked slightly amazed. "_Hello_ understatement of the year."

"…Okay, he usually ends up a complete state."

"_That's_ more like it."

With a deepening scowl, Alfred let the guys talk amongst themselves, occasionally paying attention when there was laughter but otherwise he ignored them in favour of watching the antics of the other people in the bar. There were a few people dancing - not too many, but a good enough crowd had been drawn - and there were even more people just milling around amongst groups of people, drinks in hand and laughing obnoxiously. One group of scantily clad women wandered by their table, probably no more than twenty a piece with their fake IDs and augmented breasts, clinging to their bright blue cosmopolitans and giggling like witches. The fact that he could hear their laughter over the music in the bar was a testament to the generic annoyingness of drunken, party animal sorority girls. Some of them were wonderful, intelligent women, but then there were the others that made up that stereotype - the ones that crawled around bars at all hours; boozing until they wound up either crouched in front of a toilet puking their guts up or in bed with some faceless individual.

He realized, with some chagrin, that those were the sorts of girls he had spent so much time sleeping with throughout university.

(At least by the time his last year had rolled around and he had been admitted to the law program at Harvard he had upgraded from sleeping with ditzy sorority girls to sleeping with business and law students in their first and second year.)

(And then by the time he had gotten to New York and landed a job, it was to high class hookers, a few other lawyers here and there that practiced in jurisdictions outside of Manhattan and Brooklyn, and the occasional secretary. He wasn't sure if it was an upgrade or a downgrade, but he wasn't about to question the fact that he was still able to get them in bed without much effort.)

'_Nothing like a little all-American, boy-next-door charm,_' he thought dryly as he sipped another beer. '_I seriously abused that stigma. Flayed the fuckin' shit out of it._'

Which he had, and thankfully Matthew had managed to see right through it.

(If Matthew had fallen for that, he might have lost all hope in everything ever.)

Following the group of women with his eyes but managing to keep his head stationary so that he didn't look like as big a creep as what he felt for watching them, Alfred directed his attention to the straggler of the group. The girl was somehow managing to totter along in stilettos that had to be at least four inches high, and the girl wearing them was probably already around five-seven or five-eight. And she kept tugging down the back of her dangerously short, body-hugging dress, laughing as her drink sloshed over her hand and down onto the floor, splattering up over her legs and her stilt-like shoes.

Shaking his head ruefully, Alfred returned to scanning the bar. The amount of people on the dance floor seemed to be growing a lot faster than he had realized; while there had only been maybe twenty people there a few songs ago, at least another fifteen had joined in amongst the masses of twisting people.

There was something about dancing people that fascinated him, especially when it was a large group of people as such, and whatever it was had managed to captivate him since he had been a kid. Maybe it was the chaotic yet eerily synchronized movement of the congregation of party-goers that kept his attention over the lights and music, a consideration that had a higher merit to it than the other two. While he himself loved to dance, at the moment he didn't have even a quarter of the energy it would end up requiring so he thought it better to stay there and quietly observe from the sidelines, something he hadn't done in a long time. It had literally been years since he had gone out drinking and it hadn't involved him dancing with someone by the end of the night (then again, the night wasn't even close to being over so that could end up changing very quickly).

For now, he was content to simply look on and remain apart from everything else that was happening. Sometimes being an outlier was almost emotionally gratifying. Either way, watching the still-growing group of people on the dance floor gave him something to look at for a few minutes before he grew bored with that, too, and he turned his focus back to his beer.

Alfred stretched lazily, sliding down a little in his seat. He finished off his smoke and, once he turned his attention elsewhere, he jolted a little when he saw it was just him and Chris sat there. How the hell had they left without him managing to notice it? Had he really been that spaced out? Glancing at the iPhone on the table, which read that two more messages had shown up in the space of twenty minutes (Matthew thought himself to be the most brilliant and wittiest individual on the face of the Earth when he was drunk and he took it upon himself to share that brilliance and wit with everyone he possibly could. Alfred always ended up being that sucker but, hey, he could deal with it. He was just glad he had talked his boyfriend into getting unlimited texting). The other lawyer had his arms folded over his chest and was staring out over the club with a vacant expression similar to the one Alfred had been wearing just moments before. He was doing the exact same thing - people watching. Creep.

"Where'd the guys go?" Jones asked, stretching his arms up over his head before slouching in his spot.

"I have no idea. I think they might be gone dancing or something, cause Jeff was saying something about wanting to."

"Makes sense," Alfred said, "when you consider the fact that they're probably the biggest party animals we know, next to ourselves."

Chris laughed, picking up his beer. He grinned over at the slightly older American. "They put our college freshmen selves to shame."

"I'm pretty sure I only remember a quarter of my freshman year," Al groaned.

"Remember that moonshine I tried to make in the chem lab?" Chris asked. He gave a fond sigh at the memory.

Feeling his stomach turn at the mere mention of the word, the attorney groaned and shook his head slowly. "There were definitely a few people itching to turn that fuckin' lab into a meth lab. And that moonshine nearly killed us, fuckhead. I was throwing up for almost a week. I still have nightmares about that if I've been drinking too much," he said.

"Maybe I should try and brew up another batch in the staff kitchen at the court house one of these days," he hummed thoughtfully. "See what fun we can have. I mean, that would be a good way to start the weekend, right?"

Alfred shook his head slowly. "Who are you and what the fuck have you done with Chris?"

His expression went blank. "I'm actually an alien from the former, ousted planet Pluto. I sold his mind and soul on the black market to a sex ring so I could take over his body, continue to woo his wife and buy a new car. How does that sound?"

"It's bordering on plausible, but it needs a bit of work. You're doing good so far."

Chris shot him a dirty look before rolling his eyes. "I know how to have fun," he sniffed.

"You just choose not to?"

The look he received this time around was even colder than the last one and the attorney quickly averted his gaze, smiling wickedly and cackling twistedly. "I just happen to be a mature adult and I choose the appropriate time and place to have fun, unlike you, Mr. Jones."

"I'm just a kid at heart," Jones said, his smile thinning out. "Growing up is one of my many kryptonites."

"You-"

There, he said it - it was out there in all its humanizing, ego-crippling glory (what was left of his ego, anyway; the past eight or nine months had managed to take him down a few pegs and then some).

He, Alfred F. Jones - twenty-seven and with a different Rolex for every day of the week - was still afraid of having to convert to acting like a total adult.

The longer he could cling to his comics, his videogames, the collection of action figures sitting on the top shelf of the bookcase in his bedroom and the apparent sense of wonder he still had that both amazed and attracted people to him, the longer he could put-off being a whole part of the so-called real world.

While he was, admittedly, a good eighty percent part of the world of grown-up assholes given his investment in his profession, education and lifestyle, there was still that modicum of lingering optimism still latched on to him that naively believed that there was still a way he could create brighter, if not at least a little more stable, future for others.

The longer he could hold on to all of that, the longer he could put-off growing up.

The longer he could avoid growing up, the risk of turning into a jaded lump of humanity - or, in other words, turning into a man like his father - was cast aside for another few years.

Turning into a man like his father was the very last thing he wanted. Sure, the guy was disgustingly successful and rich, but Alfred was too. There was a difference between them though; one that he had made sure was there, something that would easily set them apart should anyone ever make the mistake of comparing them. Unlike the old man, he was trying to find better ways to put that success and money of his to a use that would at least remotely benefit others. His father just sat on his growing pile of money and stocks like he was some sort of King of the Hill.

**A Short Summary:  
**_Alfred F. Jones is afraid to grow up and  
accidentally become someone frighteningly  
similar to his father in the process because  
in his opinion that would suck. A lot._

Running a hand through his hair and staring at his beer glass, Jones no longer felt any interest in finishing the drink. Nothing would please him more now than to go home and sleep for what was left of the weekend.

Chris watched the other, quietly taking in the growing expression of unhappiness he wore. "Listen, I've been meaning to ask you for a while now," he said, moving to sit closer to the other, "but how have you been?"

It took a moment for the full meaning of the question to sink in, but when it did he ducked his head. "I'm good," said Alfred. "Real good, actually. Staying with therapy has been doing wonders for me, and according to my doc, he thinks I should be good enough to give up therapy by the time February rolls around."

"Well, shit, that's good to hear," the lawyer said, brownish-yellow coloured eyes widening and a small smile forming on his face. Alfred was a bit taken aback by the reaction, but it warmed him. He kept that to himself though, and instead picked up his glass of beer to mask his smile. Chris glanced surreptitiously in the direction of the dance floor before looking back to him. "Your brother, Judge Kirkland, came to me a few times to talk about it, actually. He was really worried about you, but he didn't want to bother you. Figured you had enough on your plate to handle, dealing with your withdrawls and trying for the first week or two to straighten everything out with Matt, and then with you trying to get back into the habit of working normal hours again."

"Arthur went to _you_ to talk about it?" he asked, incredulous.

"I have no idea why either, but yeah," he said. "He was sort of embarrassed about it at first, but I told him it was fine and he spilled practically everything. I mean, I'm sure there are things he left out, but some of the stuff he told me about while you two were over in England…" Chris shook his head, almost piteously. Alfred bristled at the gesture. "Fuck, getting hit by a truck would have been easier to handle."

Laughing bitterly and taking a mouthful of beer, Jones shook his head slowly and traced a finger around the blunt edge. "I think I would have liked that more."

Chris shrugged. "Think you'd still be like it now if things hadn't happened the way they did?"

This was enough to stump him. He scratched the back of his neck, sinking back in his seat and frowning. He hadn't given it much thought up until now - because well, really, the last thing he needed to be concerning himself with was any thought at all of his old habits. What if he caught himself thinking about them a little too often and then, because of all the unintentional recollections, he found himself craving the drug he had managed to escape from? Everything he had achieved could be unravelled so easily that it terrified him. Sure, he had people to fall back on that would be there if he needed someone to help ease him through the mess, but that wasn't the point.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. His head felt fried; it was too late to be putting too much thought into anything other than his next drink - which he needed pretty badly at this point, and it was going to have to be something stronger. "I really don't know. I mean, I had been weaning myself off of it as it was, going three and four days at a time without doing any lines, but my body still had a pretty high tolerance to the shit and it took three or four lines of coke before I'd feel anything at all. So maybe I would have brought myself off of it by now, or maybe I'd be down to one or two lines a week. Who knows?"

Chris cast another wary glance about them, and the lawyer briefly admired his friend's tact. Cautious bastard. At least one of them was; someone had to be, after all. "Do you … ever find yourself missing it?"

"Not … not now. I did at first, for the first two months or so, even when I was back in New York," Alfred said. Staring out across the floor - he had caught the occasional glimpse of Jeff and Allan, but not very often - he saw everything as a brightly coloured yet dark blur. _Don't get into this, _a little voice murmured; _don't go down this road just yet, Jones._ "I missed the initial rush of the high. Like, the way my head would spin and everything would just slide into focus and sharpen, and the way I'd just wake up and come around so fast. Hell, there were a few times I went to court as high as a kite for the first few hours of a hearing. When I was at my worst with the drug, I was doing four lines twice a day. Like, I wouldn't have admitted it then, but I was a fuckin' mess, man. Total road kill. I didn't miss that, it was the way it gave me energy and I just … functioned, but I wasn't functioning on it at the same time. Not normally, at least."

Silence hung between them for a brief moment, the other nodding slowly as he took in what he said. "Can I be blunt for a second?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, sure, why not," he chuckled. It couldn't be too bad, right? "Go on."

"I think cocaine made you a proper asshole. I mean, I wanted to punch you in the face on more than one occasion, and now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure you were like a kite on those days."

Never mind.

He had forgotten Chris had taken classes on how to be a proper dick at Harvard.

"Well, coke was my excuse," Alfred said dryly. "What the fuck was yours?"

Making a face, DePaulo rolled his eyes. "Asshole," he muttered. "Sorry if I'm turning this into a game of twenty-one questions, but now I'm kind of curious. What drugs _have _you done? Cause I'm pretty sure you didn't just stick to coke."

"It's cool man, I don't exactly mind," Alfred said with a short laugh. "But I've done morphine, heroin, obviously cocaine, I've obviously smoked more than my fair share of weed but I don't consider that bad at all, Demerol, Ecstasy, Oxy Contin. Stuff like that. Extreme pain killers."

"How the fuck did you manage to get your hands on half of that shit?" he asked, amazed. "Like, you did all of that during university, right? How the fuck did you manage to get your hands on it?"

"When you have money, you have connections," Alfred said lamely.

Chris nodded sullenly; he knew damn well what he meant by that. "That's crazy though. I have no idea how you fast-tracked university, had a spot on the football team as a quarterback, got excellent marks and managed to spend at least a quarter of it drunk and another quarter of it high."

"I'm just magical," Alfred gloated. "Like a fuckin' Leprechaun or somethin'. I can multi-task like it's nobody's business, and I can write an argument out whether I'm sober or high and still tag myself as winning. Now, my turn for a question: why are you only asking me about this now? How come you've never asked me about all this before?"

He looked embarrassed. "Well, I don't know," he muttered evasively. "Because the guys aren't around, we're not at work and I can."

"Dude, you suck even more than I do at talking about your emotions," Jones laughed. "'Fess up."

"And Vanessa had told me I've gotten better at it, too." Mock disappointment sounded in his voice. "But, I don't know, I … I kind of feel like we're better friends now, so maybe it's _alright_ if I ask you these things. And, well, I know I've never been the best friend to have, cause … yeah… and I mean … uh. Yeah. But I think pretty highly of you, even … even if you are a gigantic weirdo. But, I mean, I'd like to think you're our village weirdo so it's cool and you're, like, my bro and that means we can … _talk_ about this stuff. Just not our emotions because man, I really cannot do that. But, I mean, we're good, right?"

He hadn't expected to hear that. At all.

"Wow," said Alfred. He blinked. That had taken some serious balls. "I … did you just … _wow_."

Chris' face had gone red, and not just from the alcohol. "Fuck off, I'm drunk." To prove his point, he drained back what was left of his beer and slumped in his seat, looking away.

"As much as I appreciate hearing that, you need to stop talking and get another beer," Alfred advised. "Or maybe you shouldn't, because I think you're channelling my sloppy, soppy drunk of a half-brother. I didn't think you had enough emotions in you to last a minute at a time."

"Vanessa makes me talk about how I feel at least twice a day," he muttered. "She's teaching me this emotions thing. I don't like it."

"It's because the Berlin Wall has an easier time conveying feeling than you do." Although it was close enough to what Alfred had planned on saying, that was not him speaking, unless his balls had suddenly retracted and he had gone through some sort of spontaneous reverse puberty. Both men turned around quickly, looking up with wide eyes.

A grin spreading across his face as the woman moved to sit down with them, Chris slid an arm around Vanessa's waist and chuckled. "Well speak of the Devil," he said against her cheek as he kissed her. "We were just talking about you. I thought you were going to call if you were coming over?"

Vanessa shrugged. "I like the element of surprise," she clucked, trailing her fingers down over the man's chest. "And you two were talking about me? I hope it was all nice stuff." She gave this Chris a sort of look that said _it had better be all nice stuff, Mister._

Laughing, Alfred slid over closer to the couple, sandwiching the pharmacist in between. The young woman gave a laugh of delight before planting a kiss on the district attorney's cheek. "Of course it was all nice stuff, darlin'," he said with a grin. "Like about how nice your ass is. I mean, you have a _fantastic_ ass, Vanessa. I wish I had an ass like that to call my own."

Arms slid around his shoulders and a body pressed against his back, and Alfred looked back to find Allan's wife Christine there, a wicked smile on her deeply tanned face. The third Texan of their group, her family actually came from deep in Southern Mexico but she had grown up in the same small town as the other two, had gone to Harvard with them and just so happened to be Allan's childhood sweetheart. It was sweet, in a nauseatingly precious sort of way. "Matthew has a nice ass, too," she said with a grin. "I'm sure you call that one your own already, don't you?"

Alfred managed to by-pass going red and went into a completely different colour spectrum altogether. "You cruel, wintry-hearted monster," he squawked. "Why would you say some-"

"Honey, you aren't _man_ enough to take it up the ass, so it clearly has to be the other way around."

There was no way he was hearing this. No goddamn way. And if he really was hearing it, why wasn't the floor opening up already to swallow him whole? Alfred whined. "Do you guys, like, hate me or something? What have I done to deserve such abuse?"

"It's cause we love you," Vanessa amended, petting him with a giggle. Chrissy kept her weight stationary on the lawyer, preening his blonde hair with her fingers. "And this happens to be our way of showing that love."

"Yeah, it's cause we love you, _Alfred_," Allan said, alerting the group to the presence of him and Jeff. "Wait, hang on, why do we love Alfred again? I thought we had some sort of group agreement that he's to receive no love for the next thirteen years?"

"Fuck you all, I can totally get all the love I need elsewhere," Alfred snorted. "Like from my cat, for example. She loves me more on a bad day than all of you half-wits combined."

"If it weren't for the fact that you and Matthew are a very successful couple, I'd have written you off as a high-maintenance crazy cat lady," Allan said as he took a seat across from them.

"I officially disown all of you," Alfred said, sitting up and gently pushing Chrissy and Vanessa away so he could sit by himself in a way. "I want nothing to do with any of you ever again. And I want a glass of Bourbon, Jeff, so you better get on that if you're the one buying drinks." The two women laughed before converging on him once more, if only to annoy him. The guys laughed while he groaned, head falling back between his shoulder blades as he huffed.

"What do you want in your drink?" Jeff asked with a laugh as he waved a waitress over, the one that had been tending to them most of the evening.

"… I want _Bourbon_ in my drink."

He assumed that was easy enough to follow.

"And ice cubes. Ice cubes are good."

By the time his drink did show up, he was parched and had gotten to the point of taking ice cubes from their bucket of beer and sucking on them to try and work some moisture back into his mouth. Vanessa and Chrissy were still sat on either side of him, talking with their respective husbands and laughing as they did. Jeff had already vanished again into the crowds because, well, he was a bit of a party animal and spent even more time than any of them did on the dance floor. The need to party probably came on strong after pulling hours like he did, so no one couldn't really blame the guy.

And Alfred, on the other hand, simply sat there and quietly drank his whiskey, occasionally swirling the ice cubes around the glass. He had already talked himself to the point of emotional exhaustion, so maybe that was why he was isolating himself from their pockets of discussion.

Normally, this would have bothered him to the point of nausea and he'd feel awful, but not awful enough to do anything about it. He'd feel this crippling loneliness that numbed him and he wouldn't say a word unless he was spoken to because, for some absurd reason, he'd rather sit off in his own little world to brood endlessly instead of making the effort to try and join in.

But now, he didn't mind. Maybe it was because he had already talked himself sick, but he didn't feel as though he were isolating himself from them for a change.

"Woah, Princess, I didn't know you had your own harem!"

Okay, well, maybe sitting there and saying absolutely nothing was destined to change.

A grin breaking across his face and turning in the direction his partner's voice originated from, Alfred slung his arms around the girls' shoulders. "Oh, I thought I'd surprise you one of these days with them. Beautiful lot of ladies, aren't they?" The two women laughed, slapping him lightly on either shoulder before scooting away. "They're apparently rather modest though, for some crazy reason. I mean, if I was that beautiful I wouldn't be fuckin' modest about it at all."

Matthew was grinning (and visibly drunk; his normally pale cheeks were flushed a lovely shade of red and he staggered a little with each step he took) as he and Gilbert approached the table, arms wrapped around one another. Shimmying around and crawling over the seats so he could curl up behind the lawyer, legs and arms draped around his mid-section, Williams reeked of booze and there was an underlying smell of what was possibly marijuana. The artist pressed close, and he grazed his smooth neck with his lips before planting a messy kiss on the older man's cheek. Gilbert plopped down across the table from them, sitting next to Allan and giving him a grin.

They were both a collective mess, and they looked thoroughly pleased with their existence.

"You guys are absolutely plastered, aren't you?" Chris asked with a low laugh. The smiles they wore were enough of an answer for them. "I thought Al said you were partying elsewhere?"

"Mm, we were until Mathias and genius here got us kicked out," Matthew said darkly, shooting the platinum blonde a cold look. Gilbert returned the look with a kissy-face, puckering his lips and batting his translucent lashes in his direction. "I don't even know what they did, but we got dragged out of the bar - although watching a tiny white guy escorting Ivan's huge Russian ass out of the bar - peacefully, none the less - was the funniest thing I will ever see in my lifetime-"

"Matthew, can I please tell you something before you keep talking?" Alfred asked calmly.

"Course y'can!" He hiccoughed. "S'on your mind?"

"_You_ smell like a Mexican stand-off."

"That's because _me gusta la tequila_," he cackled and slurred all at once. "Antonio taught me that. It means I like Tequila, in Spanish. Spanish is such a cool language. And it's hot. Y'should speak Spanish."

"Duly noted." Damn straight it was duly noted; he was going to take sweet, sweet advantage of that. "But seriously, is that any reason to smell like a Mexican stand-off?"

"Of course it is! Tequila makes my tummy warm, and then I feel all good and warm and fuzzy inside because my tummy likes to be warm. Alcohol is a good tummy-warmer, I bet y'didn't know that."

Gilbert dropped his weight on the table, torso flat against the surface. "Birdie here drank a 40-ouncer of Corazón Maya. I don't know how he's still alive."

Alfred turned to look at his partner. Matthew was still grinning. "What else have you been drinking?" he asked flatly.

"Not too much," he hummed, resting his chin on a broad shoulder. "I've had some vodka and Kahlúa. It just so happens that Tequila kills me every time I drink it. But I love it, so that's why I drink it even if it doesn't love me!" A wandering hand grabbed up his glass of Bourbon and Matthew sipped daintily from it with a grimace. "Mm, I hate that shit."

Laughing and prying the glass out of his hand with little effort, Alfred took a mouthful of it, loving the way it seared his throat on the way down and made his head swim briefly. "Then don't drink it if you don't like it," he teased.

"I would if I wasn't thirsty," he snapped with a small scowl. There was still a bit of a smile on his face and Jones chuckled at the expression. "Antonio's gone getting drinks or whatever it is he said he was planning on doing…"

While the last thing he knew Matthew needed was another drink, Alfred just shook his head and chuckled lowly, exchanging humoured looks with Chris. The other lawyer was stifling his laughter and had his cellphone in his hand. A moment later, Al's iPhone vibrated.

Prying it out of his jeans pocket without managing to disturb Matthew - who was now focused on talking with Jeff about something or other - glanced at the message. He smothered a bark of laughter with the back of his hand.

_Vanessa wants to know if we can take him home  
with us. She said she's always wanted her own drunk,  
gay boy for a pet. Do I have to disappoint her?_

With a furtive glance to his lover, Alfred confirmed his lack of attention before replying:

_I can't make no promises or anything, but  
maybe I can bring it up with him and I'll let  
you know what he says, alright?_

Chris looked up at him and winked before nudging his wife and showing her the message. She glanced at it as she pushed her red hair out of her face, and a bright smile broke out across it. Clapping her hands and scooting over to sit next to Matthew, she shot Christine a conspiratorial look before the two women hauled the Canadian - who was now looking properly bewildered and a little scared - out from behind Alfred to study him as though he were a specimen under a microscope of sorts.

"U-Uh, hey … there?"

Vanessa and Chrissy gave each other wicked smiles before focusing on the young man they had sandwiched between them. "I think this is our first time properly meeting," Chrissy said, trailing her manicured fingers through his soft blonde hair. "I'm Christine, Allan's wife."

Matthew blanched. "Y-You're _married?_" he squeaked, starting to panic a little. He looked over to Allan with wide, worried eyes and the Texan just grinned at him as he watched his wife harass the artist.

"Yeah, I know, crazy idea," she said with an eye roll. "Three years to that thing over there? Something must be wrong with me. Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about _you, _Mr. Williams. All I know is that you're Alfred's boy, so I need a bit more than that."

The colour had started to return to his face as the woman continually preened his hair, trying to hold back her laughter as he squirmed a bit. "Well, what do you want to know?"

"Mm, doesn't matter. Where you're from, what you do for a living, interests, if you enjoy the occasional, casual threesome-"

"_Christine!_" Allan looked shocked and his wife gave him an indifferent look. "Shut up!"

"What!"

"Jesus Christ woman, you can't just go around asking people if they enjoy _threesomes._"

Chrissy pouted and huffed. "And what's wrong with doing _that_?"

"_So many things _are wrong with that," Allan moaned from across the table, running a hand down over his face. "Just … don't ask people those things. Or at least not when you've just met them. Like, really. Don't_. Please."_

"Your problem is that no one ever asks you if you enjoy having threesomes." Turning to face the flustered young man beside her, she arched a brow and cocked her head. "Well? Do you?"

Spluttering and turning even redder, Matthew made a choked noise before shrugging. "I … um … okay well sure. There's nothing wrong with them as long as, y'know, there's enough _love_ to go around, then I am all for a threesome."

Chrissy looked to Alfred. "I hope you're paying attention to this, Jones."

Alfred tapped his temple and gave his boyfriend a sly smile. "Trust me, sweetie, I'm keeping everything stored up here for future reference. Things like this just do not go astray with me."

Matthew looked like he wanted to slide under the table and never come back out. He refrained from doing so for the simple fact that Antonio had just showed up with three bottles of vodka in hand. Accepting his bottle of Absolut, Matthew popped the top and sipped on it, nodding. Absolut Citron. Best flavoured vodka on the face of the earth, and he could drink it back like it was water.

Pointing at the Canadian as he took a seat next to Gilbert, Antonio was grinning. "Like I said earlier, no more Tequila for you. Next thing we know, you'll be craving tacos and chalupas, and you'll suddenly sprout a sombrero or something."

Snickering around the mouth of his bottle, Matthew shot him a wry smile as he leant a little too far to the side, Vanessa reaching out and straightening him up. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, where did Mathias go?"

"I think Ivan is beating him up in a back alley for ruining his stellar reputation at that bar," Gilbert said. "You'd think a tank like ol' Vanya would have a bad rap sheet when it comes to bars and behaviour of the like, but nope. He's a little fucking angel. _Matthew's _gotten himself kicked out of more bars than Ivan has."

Nodding his agreement, Antonio looked a little worried. "I would not be entirely surprised," he commented as he struggled momentarily with the cap on his own drink. "Mathias is doomed if that's the case."

"We should probably be good friends and find out if something has happened to him," Gilbert commented. "So we can plan his funeral and shit."

"That's a good idea," Antonio said distractedly, staring into his bottle before taking a swig.

Neither of them moved.

An example of friendship at its finest.

Alfred turned to look at Matthew, who was now looking as though he were quite enjoying the presence of the women on either side of him; he was grinning lasciviously as he chatted quietly with them - "Yeah, I work at a supermarket, but I mean, it's not as bad as everyone makes it out to be. And I paint on the side, so it's totally cool" - with his arms draped around either of their shoulders.

"You've been kicked out of bars before?" he asked, incredulous. "I thought you were all about stellar behaviour, man. What is this horseshit."

"I was really drunk once and I kind of leaned over the bar and groped the bartender," Matthew commented with a growing smile. "He really didn't like it, but I'm pretty sure he was rockin' half of a boner when I did. Apparently grabbing someone's crotch without warning them is a form of harassment."

"Wow." It was all Alfred could bring himself to say about it. "Like, _wow._"

Sliding out of the grasp of the women and inching over to curl into the lawyer's side, draping his legs across the man's lap and letting his free hand (when he wasn't holding the bottle of vodka he was nursing) rest on his lower abdomen, Matthew grinned up at him. "That was also when I was seventeen. Because frequenting bars when you were underage was so much more fun than now."

Wrapping an arm around him as he sipped some more Bourbon, getting down to the bottom of the glass where the whiskey that festered there was strongest, he shook his head with a low chuckle. "Man, I think I was about nineteen before I snuck into any bars," Alfred commented.

"Yeah, I remember that, too," Allan said. "I think it was the first time any of us had gone to a bar, and we were all underage. I can't remember if we got kicked out or not though."

"I think we did," Chris said, nodding slowly. "But only because this was a time before Jeff was capable of holding his liquor and he got us kicked out after our third rounds of drinks because he thought he'd be a fuckin' hotshot and take more shots than his pathetic little body could handle."

"Fuck you man," Jeff grumbled, slumping a little in his chair. "That was the only time that ever happened. You're all assholes for bringing that up."

"Assholes that love you," Vanessa reminded him with a light, sipping on her radioactive green martini. When had that shown up? Alfred glanced around the table to find that the majority of the people had refills of whatever it was they had been drinking beforehand - and his nearly-empty glass of Bourbon had been replaced with a full one. Matthew was either really taking his time with his vodka, or he had already ploughed through that one and had gotten a new one. Either he was just being a total space cadet or if he was drunker than he actually felt.

(But because of the fact that Matthew had been rubbing small circles on the lower part of his abdomen and he hadn't reacted at all to it simply told him that he was, indeed, a space cadet.)

Pressing a subtle kiss and watching the others from the corner of his eyes, Alfred let his lips graze behind his boyfriend's ear and he grinned at how the younger man laughed quietly and slid his arm around him even tighter than before.

"Mm, we should dance for a bit," Matthew said mid-yawn.

He watched the artist for a moment. "I don't know about that, Pet," he murmured. "You look awfully tired. I mean, you've been up since like five o'clock this morning and you didn't sleep that much last night, either."

Matthew sighed. "I think I slept two hours? I had way too much going through my mind for me to settle down," he admitted, glancing to the dance floor and back to the older man with a petulant expression. "But by the time I got even slightly tired, I was too frustrated to even bother sleeping."

"I'm pretty sure you spent at least a quarter of that just pacing around, didn't you?" Alfred hummed into his ear, resting his cheek on the top of his head; he was after sliding down far enough against him in order to do so.

"And watching TV, yeah." He sounded slightly apologetic. "Sorry if I woke you up or anything."

"Nah, it's cool," laughed the lawyer, "I didn't sleep that great either, but it wasn't because you were up or anything."

Falling silent, Matthew sighed and shut his eyes, chin resting on the lawyer's shoulder as he occasionally sipped his vodka. Alfred nudged him back into a sort of awareness, "D'you still want to go and dance?"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth - in fact, he hadn't even finished saying it - when Matthew stood and hauled Al up to stand with him, politely excusing themselves.

They managed to get away without any major disaster (with the exception of nearly peeing himself from laughing so hard at Alfred tripping up over the bottom of the table), tugging one another towards the center of the dance floor; neither of them were fond of staying on the outskirts of the crowd, and even though it was bordering on humid the closer they got to the middle, they almost preferred it that way.

Last time they had danced had been back in April; sure they had gone out drinking with the guys since then, but Alfred was admittedly a little too shy to ask Matt to go and dance, and maybe it was because of this shyness that his partner hadn't bothered with asking him; sort of assumed he didn't want to.

Well, he had gotten over that shyness. And it was damn well time he had.

(Or just about.)

Pulling Matthew's lanky frame close so that they were pressed body-to-body, Alfred let an arm settle on his narrow waist while arms moved to wrap around his neck, one hand going to rest on his chest. Jones let one of his hands trail from his hip, down over the curve of his ass and then in the end lingering on the back of his thigh. Neither of them actually knew what the song was - like most clubs, it was a remix of a mash-up of a remix - but it was easy enough to dance to. Then again, there wasn't a lot of skill required to grind as sensually as possible against someone.

Although it did feel _really_ good if the person happened to be damn good at dancing like that.

Lips pressed to the space by the artist's jaw, he kept a tight grip on his body as they rocked together. He remembered someone once calling this sex with your clothes on. Glancing around to take in for a brief moment all the other people dancing around them, Alfred considered it. Whoever had said it was probably the most observant person around.

Matthew's hand sliding up the back of his shirt caught his attention and, eyes widening behind his glasses, he looked over to his partner; he was grinning sinuously, and then pressed forward to gently nip the man's lower lip. "Space cadet," he murmured into his ear, laughing. He still smelt of Tequila despite having some vodka to cover it up, but he didn't smell like weed anymore. It almost smelt good on him.

Chuckling, Alfred rubbed the back of his thigh affectionately before sucking in a breath as Matthew ghosted his body down along him in a fluid dip before sliding back up along him, hands sliding up under his shirt and along his stomach before moving to settle once more on his chest and shoulder.

There was a word for that. Actually, there were a _few_ words that ranged from Arousing to Vixen to Tease and to Goddamnit You're Going To Kill Me Matthew And It's Not Going To Be A Pretty Death.

When he did it again, twisting around so that his back was pressed to the American's chest and his hands rested on narrow hips, Alfred realized that Matthew was probably _trying _to be the death of him.

The wicked smirk he tossed over his shoulder simply proved that he was shamelessly trying to turn him on.

Not that it wasn't working, either.

It was nearly an hour later before either of them thought of leaving the dance floor, laughing and breathless and damp with sweat. Once or twice they had swapped partners, Alfred opting to dance with some tall brunette - in fact, he realized that it had been the same brunette he had seen straggling behind the group of giggling girls he had seen earlier. While he danced with her, Matthew had landed himself with a tiny little red head that clung to him like a leech while trying to hold onto a martini at the same time. When he had slunk back over to him afterwards, looking slightly displeased, Jones realized that his boyfriend was wearing most of the girl's martini over the front of his t-shirt.

Once they got back to the table, dropped down and settled back in, Matthew announced quite loudly that he was bored again. Which wasn't much of a surprise.

Shooting Alfred a conspiratorial look of sorts, he smirked and then threw down a declaration; a challenge should the man wish to participate and show off those supposed women-snaring skills of his.

"You have always claimed, Alfred Jones, to be a lady killer," he announced, a smile growing on his face. The moment he said this, he perked up and sat back, arms across his chest and listening to the Canadian. "Frankly, I believe it but at the same time I hold some doubts. In fact, I think I could get more phone numbers than you can. What d'you say? Care to prove me wrong, _Princess_?"

Was he _actually _challenging the prowess of his charm, charisma and good looks that he had long-since prided himself on?

No way. No fucking way was he going to allow himself to be beaten at his own game - and by his boyfriend, none the less, and in front of his friends and said boyfriend's friends who were, at this point, cackling and goading them on. (Mathias and Ivan had shown up, the former sporting a forming black eye, thus crediting the idea that the Russian had beaten the living snot out of the Dane in a back alley).

No one messed with his skills. _No one._

"Oh, you are _so on._"

Settling back in his chair, Jeff looked between the two and smirked. "Well, if you don't mind, I'll help with giving you a head start there, Ice Queen," he said, pulling a pen out of his pocket and scrawling his cell number down on a napkin before handing it to Mattie. Indigo eyes widened. "Text me sometime, baby; I've been told I'm an excellent texting _buddy_." He gave a solicitous wink accompanied by one of his salesman grins, bright and wide and filled with promising guarantees.

Enter pair of pants number two to be ruined.

(He did, however, thank him politely for the advanced jump on the game as Alfred fumed quietly to himself and bolted from the table to the first lean, long-legged beauty he could find.)

Then, with this aside and both of them having split up and claimed various sides (and floors) of the bar as their turf, or so to speak, they played the phone number game, in which they tried to get more phone numbers than the other. Alfred was playing along mainly for the simple fact that he wanted to see if he was just as good as he once was, and to make up for the total suffering his pride had just undergone, the wounds handed to him on a silver platter by his boyfriend.

Matthew was playing it for the simple fact of having something fun to do that he knew Alfred would secretly get a kick out of, too.

By the time 3am rolled around and they had both gotten slightly sick of flirting with random people, they made their way back to the table - surprisingly, everyone was still there, even if Gilbert was half-asleep from the jet lag - and they tossed down their various napkins and slips of paper and debit receipts to be tallied; Mathias took Alfred's while Chris took Matthew's spoils so that there was no backhanded cheating or anything of the like.

It ended up being a tie, much to their surprise, although Matthew had ended up with a slew of numbers belonging to either gender, which slightly astounded the lawyer.

(And it made him a quarter jealous too, but he just considered himself silly so he quietly laughed it off and kissed him a little harder than usual when no one else was looking.)

(Matthew secretly liked it when he got possessive of him, but he'd sooner be shot dead than admit to it.)

Deciding that then would be a good time to leave, before someone suggested another round of shots or a round two to be a tie-breaker for their silly little competition - or before Matthew suggested they go dancing again; if he did, and they went back out there, it would end up with Alfred dragging him to either the nearest empty bathroom or vehicle to not-so-secretly have his way with him because it should have been damn well illegal to dip and swivel his hips like that.

Before any of that happened it would be best if they left, otherwise they'd be there until last call. Which wouldn't be a first, but he didn't like making a habit of it.

Four am had rolled around before they got back to Alfred's place. They had at first considered going to Matt's place before they had hailed a taxi, but decided against it because they didn't want their walking around waking up the people sleeping beneath their feet. Sound travelled fairly well throughout the house given it was close to being seventy-years-old and the walls back then had been built a lot thinner than what they were now. Hell, half of the time houses built within recent memory were soundproofed in various places. So, wisely enough, they chose to crash at Al's place.

Crash in the most literal sense; they were barely through the front door of the man's apartment and they simply flopped on the floor and lay there, staring up at the cathedral-like ceiling until Oreo padded over to the pair of exhausted, drunken men and mewed for attention while nosing at their flushed cheeks.

And even then, with all that urging to get up, it still took them a little longer than necessary to pick themselves up off of the floor.

As Alfred flopped on the sofa, a hand covering his face as he yawned, Matthew stumbled over to the kitchen and started running the tap as he rummaged through the cupboard for a glass. Even though he had a water container and filtration system, for some reason he preferred tap water for drinking over mineral or bottled stuff.

Or maybe that had something to do with the fact that he had boycotted using plastic bottles - which meant no sodas, no bottled water, just about anything that came in a plastic bottle - with the exception of laundry detergents, cleaners things of that sort, but it was all a) bought in bulk and b) the environmentally friendly stuff. He had abolished all of it from his apartment, and was actually doing an amazing job of keeping it up.

There were times when Alfred found himself tempted to try the same thing, but he was a little too addicted to coke (with the ice cubes, thank you kindly) and his few other creature comforts that came in a plastic bottle to try all of it.

Sooner or later, though, and Matthew would probably try to convince him to give it a try or something, and maybe then he would actually give it a try because hey, there would be a little bit of motivation there then, right?

For now, he'd wait until he received the eventual shove in the right direction, which Matthew would provide soon enough for him.

(Like he usually did.)

Lying on the sofa with his arm still draped over his face and Oreo now curled into his side like his personal, fluffy heater, he groaned as he felt tiny pinpricks for claws digging into his stomach as the animal kneaded at his body to make him more comfortable to lie on. With his free hand he reached down and scratched at the space behind her ears, smiling at the high-pitched mewl that left her; 'You left me alone all evening,' it seemed to say as she let out another one that sounded almost more like a squawk than anything. 'And you expect me to be happy? Not likely, buster. You better be prepared to stay here for a while.'

Saying that he wasn't prepared to spend the rest of his night (or morning, it all depended on which way you wanted to look at it) on the sofa would have been a lie. The prospect of climbing the stairs and getting to the top in one solid, alive piece was a daunting one. So on the sofa he would stay for the rest of the night because there would be no risk of sliding down over the stairs as he climbed up over them, bones turning into a pile of goop as he did.

A heavier weight that bypassed the cat's by a good few light years collapsed on top of him and he let out a grunt, eyes flying wide and raising his arm to peer down at the man now lying atop him. Blonde hair was nestled beneath his chin and Alfred sighed, keeping the arm he had been using to shield his eyes with over the younger's back, pressing him in place.

"Tired?" he asked.

"No shit, Captain Obvious."

Alfred scoffed as he kissed the top of his head, rubbing small, soothing circles on his back as he did so. "Hey hey, there's no need to be saucy."

"Okay, I'm sorry," Matthew hummed, curling in close to him. The cat gave him a dirty look, as if to say, 'excuse me, but what the hell do you think you're doing, lying all over my human like that?'

Surprised by how easily placated the artist was, Alfred decided to not say anything against it and he simply attributed it to him being so drunk. He tended to be a little more malleable when he was like that, anyway, which was the only real personality change he went through when there was alcohol in his body. That, and the few occasions where booze turned him into a raging slut. But that was okay, because he very rarely acted on it - thankfully, neither of them had ever gotten further than clothing half-off with booze in their systems, because they always ended up too tired to go past that point and would sooner pass out cold and sleep than fool around. Like right now, for instance; Matthew had probably burned off all that sexual energy he had been storing while they had been dancing and running around the bar trying to pick up as many individuals as they possibly could.

Because normally, by the time they had gotten back, Alfred probably would have been at least shirtless. Now, though, neither of them had the will to move let alone take off clothing.

Looking up and frowning when Matthew sat upright, swaying a bit on his lover's hips before stretching, he slid off of him and staggered back over to the fridge and studied the front of it in the scant light of the condo; there was a lamp on in the far corner by one of his bookcases, but it barely reached to where to kitchen was situated.

The Canadian seemed to stay there for a long time - longer than usual - simply staring at a little piece of paper. His body had gone stock still and he didn't make the slightest attempt at moving.

Sitting up as well, Alfred swung his feet over the side of the sofa as he scooped the cat up and plopped her down in his lap. She stared up at him for a moment before kneading at his thighs as she settled in there instead. Low chuckles left him as he ran a hand down over her spine and slid his hand over her tail, plucking the end up before letting it slap back down against him. Then he looked over to Matthew. "S'wrong, Pet?"

"You told me I was off today."

"Well, yeah," Alfred said with a growing frown. He picked the cat up and put her to the side as he stood, the room spinning around him as he made his way over to his lover. The man wore a look of abject horror on his pretty face and Alfred felt himself beginning to worry a bit. "I mean, I looked at your schedule yesterday and-"

"… Al, you looked at the wrong one. That was last week's schedule you looked at."

A moment of silence to mourn the fatal mistake. Then: "… Fuck."

"_Yeah_."

Matthew let his head hit the top part of the fridge and he sighed, running a hand through his hair and then rubbing at the back of his neck.

"What time are you working then?" Alfred asked, moving to slide his arms around his waist. While he didn't resist, but he still stayed with his head pressed flat against the refrigerator door.

With a quiet groan, the Canadian shook his head. "I'm working at six-"

Alfred perked up a bit. "That's not too bad. I mean you can sleep most of it off and-"

"I'm working at six o'clock in the _morning,_ Alfred."

"Oh." That was in less than two hours. Oreo, seated by her owner's feet, meowed, setting the mood for them.

"This sucks," Matthew said, sagging a little.

"You can say that again."

"… This really sucks."

Well, he didn't say for him to not take him seriously.

* * *

Hey guys! Sorry for the crazy long delay for this chapter; when I got back from my trip, I ended up working a lot and having very little time to do anything at all. So with what time I had, I managed to get all this out. Hopefully it's not too disappointing.

Thanks for reading guys, and holy crap there are so many reviews for this thing. It's kind of mind-blowing!

Until next time, guys!


	36. Chapter 36

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX.**

If the guy behind him - or any driver within a city block radius of his car for that matter - blew his horn one more time, there was going to be a crime scene.

On any given day, Alfred could make it from his condo to the court house, and vice-versa, within fifteen minutes. Sometimes twenty or twenty-five, depending on the traffic, how heavy it was, the time of day and where it was to.

Today, however, was not 'any given day'. In fact, it was the day from hell for he and Chris had been sat in traffic, thanks to a three car accident in the dead center of an intersection they needed to pass through, for what was going on forty minutes. The two men were slumped in their seats, slouching in a similar posture and wearing identical masks of blooming frustration. Chris had abandoned his Blackberry on the top of his thigh, spine curling a bit as he was bordering on sliding down to eye-level with the dashboard while Alfred stared at the Mercedes logo in the centre of the steering wheel, his iPhone resting between his legs and completely abandoned; he had been texting his brother but the man took a month and a few days to reply, so he had given up nearly all hope of trying to hold a decent conversation.

Hostility practically exuded from them, quietly simmering and saying nothing as they sat there. It was probably for the better, given the volatility of their tempers - Alfred when behind the wheel of a vehicle, whether it was tuck in traffic or not, given his frequent outbursts of road rage, and Chris with just his temper in general due to his distinct lack of patience no matter the situation.

Maybe they were simply sitting in silence in fear of aggravating the beginning of World War Three.

"So…" Chris started in awkwardly. He sounded strained; on edge.

The two men looked at one another and sighed their frustration.

"Yup," Alfred replied through his teeth. He clenched the wheel harder.

World War Three _definitely_ had potential.

They fell silent again as Alfred edged the Benz a car space further. Jones looked like he was out for blood as he set the car in park, hand clenching the gear shift so tightly that his knuckles were white and if he had a penchant for turning into a gigantic green monster, there wouldn't _be_ a gear shift left. But he wasn't the Hulk, so there wasn't anything to worry about; all he could do was endure his hand savagely cramping up from how tightly he was holding the stick.

Letting go and setting his twitching hand down in his lap, he bit his lip before craning his neck to peer into the rear-view mirror at the sound of approaching sirens. About time someone arrived on the scene other than the solitary ambulance that happened to be in the area. Talk about serendipity.

Sure, he felt a minor sense of sympathy for the people involved in the accident, but if the asshole in the Dodge hadn't barrelled through the clusterfuck of a busy intersection - hell, it was a crazy enough area even when it _wasn't_ the dinner hour - when he was the one with the red light then they wouldn't have to be sat almost two blocks away to freedom. The west bound lane, beyond the accident, was clear, with one car rocketing off down the strip of pavement as the driver had managed to swerve around the accident before someone told him to stop.

_Well, we've gone four blocks in the past forty minutes, _he thought, idly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he and Chris watched three or four emergency response vehicles go flying past them in the lane leading away from the accident. Moments later, two police cars joined them, and just behind them a fire truck.

"Looks like the cavalry's here," Jones commented.

"About time," muttered Chris. "I was giving it another ten minutes before I made a fucking call myself for a goddamn tow-truck. Hell, I'd pay for the fucker and all."

A sentiment the driver echoed; he grunted with a singular nod. Sliding the car out of park, Alfred edged it forward until the bumper of his Mercedes was practically kissing the one of the Elantra in front of him.

Ten more minutes crawled by, and they had managed to get another six or seven car spaces - some serious progress - beyond where they had previously been and were now at the end of another block.

If it weren't for the fact that he was hungry and there was no one home to make dinner - Matthew, had he been off, would have had something waiting for the both of them, but he was working until midnight - he would not have been nearly as bothered. He glanced at his watch; it was almost six o'clock and, unless he said fuck it and grabbed some McDonalds on the way, it would be well after seven, if not eight, before he actually sat down to have anything to eat.

The car ahead of him moved, giving him the space to cross the intersection. Alfred, however, did not move.

"Hey, Al?" Chris asked, glancing between the driver and the spot where they could be parked now. "You gonna go sometime this year, or are we waiting until the next coming of Christ?"

Sitting there for another moment, the lawyer flexed his hands on the steering wheel. Wary, and having been in a car with the lawyer enough times to be so, Chris straightened a little and tightened his seat belt and the very same moment he did that, Alfred took the AMG out of park and shoved it into drive, slamming his foot on the gas and making a turn through the intersection, his tires squealing and narrowly avoiding creating another three-way accident.

Holding onto the 'oh shit' bar every car has four of, Chris' eyes flew wide and he felt his heart and stomach jump up into his throat, fighting for space as the attorney tore down the road. A glance to the speedometer showed that the needle was sitting between sixty and seventy. He should have done himself a favour and just not looked. Despite the fact that he wasn't all that religious, Chris said a little prayer for himself and considered going through the rosary, each and every Hail Mary included, just like his great grandmother had shown him.

Jones banked another sharp turn, his car rocking precariously before slowing down, humming pleasantly to himself as he relaxed in his seat.

"Alfred…"

"Speak up, dude," he laughed, smile wicked, "I don't understand mumbling!"

"_I am going to throttle you_."

"Says the fully grown man who almost wet his pants and squealed like a little girl."

Chris made a lunge for the driver, causing Alfred to let out a shrill scream as he accidentally drove into the opposite lane before shoving the man off of him and into the passenger door. The two of them stared at the truck in front of them and let out twin screams of horror before the lawyer reacted. He shoved his car back into its proper lane with a yell when the horn of a cube van blared in his general direction, the panicking driver making a 'get out of the way' gesture with his arm.

Pulling the car off the road and up onto part of the curb, causing some pedestrians to jump out of the way, the two men sat there, white-faced and wide-eyed.

"I should kill you," Alfred said in a strained voice.

DePaulo didn't even say anything; he looked a little too stunned.

"You know what? I think I'll kill you." He scratched at his neck as he said this. "You down with that?"

Nodding, Chris rubbed his jaw. "Yeah. Go for it man, I don't see anything wrong with it."

There was a moment where neither of them moved, and Chris was mentally preparing himself for an imminent demise. Something that would be quick but excruciatingly painful. His friend wasn't the most merciful individual. But then Alfred surprised him by shaking his head slowly. "Not yet," he whispered in a menacing voice as he backed the car up. "Not while you're expecting it. I'll wait until the right moment. I'll wait until you've forgotten. Then, when you least expect it, you're a dead man, Christopher."

"You're mental."

Alfred shrugged as he eased the Benz back onto the road. "That's the side-effect of dating someone bordering on batshit," he said with an airy wave of his hand.

There was no arguing with that.

They bypassed the scene of the accident and Alfred looked properly smug. "I don't know why I didn't think of doing that earlier."

"You didn't think of it because you don't know _how _to think," Chris snapped. Alfred's hand shot out, smacking the other man in the chest. It hit with a hollow thumping noise and a choked 'oof' left him, as well as a litany of garbled curses and backhanded insults.

Good friends? You can tell yourself that. Going as far as believing it, though? That's just craziness.

Once he had dropped Chris off, the cold mid-November breeze sweeping in through the car and chilling him, he settled back and headed in the direction of his own abode. It was fairly cold out, but the lawyer knew it would be colder in his apartment because of the air conditioning problem. Unless Matthew got so fed up with it being cold in there that he found a way to fix it (such as ripping the whole system out with his bare hands because he was a manly man that totally came from a lineage of crazy ass lumberjacks, as did all other Canadians) there was no way the building's maintenance crew was going to go about fixing something as expensive as that.

Although, he _could _find some sort of loophole in his home insurance clause that called them negligent for something or other and he could file an injunction against them for it, thus winning himself another case _and _getting free air conditioning and home heating replacement for free.

The short drive between their homes was a short one - Chris lived within a respectable walking distance, which was pretty awesome - and fairly uneventful. No crazy accidents to deal with, no traffic and there was only one kamikaze jogger who decided to bolt across the road just as he was making a turn instead of the usual three or four he ran in to.

_Some people these days_, he thought as he drove away, cursing as he gave the jogger a murderous look, _just really happen to have a death wish_.

One of these days he wasn't going to be lucky enough to have quick enough reflexes to slam on the brakes and blare the horn at the same time. There'd either be a big smear of human all over the road and the front end of his Mercedes, or he'd end up having something close to a heart attack because of it.

(Frankly, he'd rather the bloody smear on the road because a premature heart attack would _suck._)

Returning home for the day, accompanied by a stress knot at the base of his neck, Alfred was almost looking forward to throwing something crappy in the microwave to heat up and then crash on the sofa for the rest of the night with a videogame controller in hand.

Sliding off his suit jacket as he stepped into his apartment, Alfred yawned and ran a hand through his hair before grabbing a coat hanger. The smell of something absolutely delicious reached him and he smiled, eyes sliding shut. Someone was cooking lobster tails. He brushed off the delicious smell and rubbed the back of his neck as he struggled to get his shoes off, pressing his forehead against the wall and resting his weight against it as he did so.

The fact that someone was cooking in his supposedly empty apartment didn't clue in.

For a moment he stayed there resting with his forehead against the wall supporting his weight, eyes shut and beginning to relax his muscles. As he did this he slowly emptied his thoughts and _breathed_; breathing was so easy to do, and frankly, he loved the feeling of standing in his porch and just mentally shedding a few pounds. It was what his therapist back in England had shown him.

Meditating was fantastic stress relief, he thought. He knew Vanessa, whom was into all that yoga and tai chi stuff, was also into meditating. Maybe he could get her to show him some more things and he could even pass it on to Matthew or something. There were times when the guy could use some serious relaxation, and meditation _was _fantastic for that.

Pushing away from the wall and feeling considerably better, he ditched the tie he wore over the back of a chair before toeing off his socks. Grabbing them off the floor and the tie he had discarded, he dumped them in a basket of dirty laundry.

It didn't clue into him that there were people in his apartment until he turned around and stopped upon hearing the sound of keyboards being typed on, pausing and cocking his head when he saw that Matthew and Mathias were sat at the dining room table. The space was big enough for a party of six and they had the entire table taken up with papers and computers. Matthew had both his laptop and the lawyer's set up and was navigating back and forth between them, while Mathias had a Mac and a PC hooked up, both of them connected to the printer that was usually in Jones' office. There were papers, books and phone books _everywhere_.

It looked as though a library or an archive had thrown its guts up all over the table.

Impressive.

Not even looking up from the computer screen, Matthew greeted him with a pleasant 'hello' and 'there's still some dinner left in the oven if you want it.'

Looking between the two young men, a creeping sense of unease taking over him despite how impressed he was with their set up, Alfred nodded and padded over to the oven, opening the door. For all he knew, the little bastards could have been plotting to take over the world from his kitchen. Worrying about that could wait though. Supper awaited him and it was just as he had suspected: cooked lobster tail. His stomach practically snarled.

Hand on his demanding tummy, he grabbed an oven mitt and hauled the plate it was on out and set it on the counter before uncovering a pot. There were noodles in there, mixed with beans, carrots, mushrooms and these weird, spiral plants all in an alfredo sauce. It looked really good - and smelled even better when he had the cover of the pot off - but the spiral plants were a little too confusing for his liking.

There was no way he was eating it if he didn't know what it was. "What the fuck are these things?" he demanded, plucking one out and holding it for inspection.

Matthew glanced over. "Those are fiddleheads," he said before looking back to his computer. He picked up a pencil, crossed something off on a sheet of paper next to him and slid it over to the Dane for inspection. There was a nod; the paper was returned. _What in the hell are they doing-_ "The grocery store received a shipment of them today, all frozen though. They're imported from Nova Scotia, and they're good for you. So eat up, you're a growing boy."

Alfred snorted before dumping the contents of the pot on the plate. It was all warm enough so that he didn't have to waste time reheating it. "I can't believe you guys had time to cook all of this up and work at the same time-"

Then it hit him. "Why aren't you at work?"

Finally, both Matthew and Mathias looked away from the computers. Williams tilted his head back a bit, a grin on his face. "Should I tell him now or later?"

The Dane smirked wickedly. "Well, he'll find out sooner rather than later, so you might as well tell him now."

"Point taken."

"Tell me what?" Jones demanded warily, setting his fork down. "I don't like where this is going, Mattie."

"I quit my job!"

"Oh. Okay." Alfred nodded slowly before turning back to his food, forking some of the lobster into his mouth. Fuck, whoever cooked it damn well knew what they were doing. And Matthew quit his job, too! Well how exciting. Never too late for a career change-

Then he froze: "_You did what?_"

Laughter left the two men seated at the table. "Well, it was I either quit, or I punched the manager in the face for being a douche. If one more word had to come out of his mouth, putting me down or ridiculing me, I was going to break his jaw. But that might have ended up being a bad thing, so instead of landing myself an assault charge, I quit."

"So, what are you going to do for rent?" Alfred asked quietly.

The Canadian held up the stack of papers beside him. "I'm going job hunting tomorrow!" he declared. "I got my two old bosses, Lars and Greg as my references. And Mathias is hunting with me; he quit too."

"Yup!" Mathias declared, grinning from ear to ear. "And not only am I doing up resumes, I'm also deciding to take this as a fucking amazing opportunity to start looking into starting my own environmentally-friendly gardening business. Or at least just looking into the logistical and business aspect of it."

The two slapped each other a high-five.

"Fuck yeah, being adults!" Mathias declared. "We're doing it right!"

Slightly dazed, the American nodded and turned back to his food. It was a little bit hard to digest - the news, not the food - as it was the last thing he had expected to hear come from the younger man. "Well, as long as you feel it's the right decision, I mean-"

"And I'm doing up university applications for the winter semester."

Alfred dropped his fork. It hit the ceramic plate with a sharp clatter and he looked over to his partner, eyes widening and a grin breaking out across his face. "What- oh my God you are you _serious_?"

Laughing at the reaction, Matthew stood and approached the lawyer. "Yep," he said, sliding his arms around the man's mid-section as the other placed his hands on his elbows, tugging him close with a chuckle. "I'm just to the point that I'm sick of a having a dead end job and even though a degree won't promise shit, it's better than nothing, right?"

Kissing him on the corner of the mouth, Al pressed their foreheads together and grinned. "I'm very proud of you," he said quietly, a smile growing at how Matthew's expression softened; how his cheeks darkened a bit and his smile turned just that little bit bashful to make it endearing. "I'm so very, very proud of you, Matthew."

"Thanks," he whispered, ducking his head and pressing closer. Alfred buried his face in curly, sweet-smelling blonde hair and inhaled. "I want to stop sucking at life, y'know? And maybe going back to school would help that a bit."

Tightening his arms around him, the lawyer admonished his words. "You don't suck at life, Pet," he scolded lightly, trailing his fingers down over his back and settling them at the small. "Far from it."

"Does that mean I'm winning?" Matthew asked, smirking.

"All day every day," he laughed, kissing him fondly.

Rubbing the back of his neck when he pulled away, Matt shut his eyes and sighed, tilting his head back for a brief moment as he inhaled deeply. "I'm also reapplying to the art school that accepted me before," he said quietly. "I'm working on another portfolio again, too."

"What are you going to do with an art degree?" Al asked. "Not to be a Debbie Downer or anything, but where's that going to get you in today's society?"

"I don't exactly know," admitted the young man with a sigh, sinking back against the counter but then moving to the side when he realized he was blocking the lawyer from his dinner - just about as dangerous a feat as blocking a starving bear from a picnic basket. "I mean, it's always been a dream of mine to go to art school, and the one I'm applying to offers courses in sociology and politics, but-"

"I know it is," Alfred said, cutting him off. He had picked up his plate and moved it to the center island. "But look at it this way: you even said so yourself, you don't want a dead end job. Then look at the degree you could end up with. It's hard to find work with an arts degree, even if you have a humanities or social sciences minor. You'd have to spend a good chuck of your time looking for employment outside of a coffee shop. There were people that I knew when I went to Harvard that ended up with artsy degrees - like in linguistics and anthropology. Not that I'm hating on those degrees and fields, but they're still looking for work. So even though you'd have gone through school the way you want to, there's a good possibility you'd ending up making coffee for pretentious assholes and their Macs or waiting tables or stocking shelves all over again."

The words stung because they were true, and that was what the Canadian hated the most and what made Alfred feel awful. He knew Matthew knew this, but maybe hearing it from someone else would just reaffirm that knowledge. Or at least he could hope it would.

"Fuck you, Alfred." Matthew groaned and ran a hand down over his face before moving to sit on the floor, resting his back against the center island and his head against Al's calf. Reaching down as he forked some lobster into his mouth, he messed up the other's hair with a light chuckle. "I hate it when you're right. Like, I hate it so much. Why do you have to be right?"

"I tend to look at things a little too in-depth on occasion," he said around a mouthful of crustacean. "But that's my vocational training peaking out."

Williams cursed, hitting his leg. "I also did up applications for a few business colleges, NYU and a handful of other art schools in the area, so who knows. I have until January to figure out everything."

He nodded, staying quiet for a moment as he thought out his next question: "Did you apply to any out of state schools?"

"I sent off applications for Yale, Harvard and Princeton just for the shits and giggles," Matthew said. "But the thing is, I have just enough for two years of tuition, books and fees in my bank account for NYU, which is the most expensive on my list. I wouldn't be able to afford residence. Anyway, I'd have to drag you along, too, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad…"

Laughter. "Would you really?"

Matthew nodded. "Commuting between states to see you would suck," he admitted in a quiet voice. "And you're too fucking needy to depend on a long-distance relationship. I might enjoy subjecting you to the occasional bout of unusual cruelty, but I wouldn't do that to you."

'_Only because I wouldn't want to do it to myself,_' Matthew thought to himself, withholding a dragged-out sigh in favour of simply shutting his eyes and keeping his cheek pressed against the fine material of the attorney's dress pants.

They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound in the place keeping it from being a chapel-like silence coming from Mathias' audible music and the clacking of him typing on his laptop.

It was nice but, of course, Alfred had to speak.

(_This is why we can't have nice things, _Matthew wanted to say, but he assumed it would be best to keep that to himself.)

"Well, you have until the acceptance letters start coming in to figure out what you're doing," Alfred hummed. "That gives you at least a good month or so, right? And if you need any help with figuring things out, I'll gladly help you. I've been through university twice, so I know a few things, even if it does differ from school to school."

Standing, Matthew wrapped his arms around the lawyer's shoulders and pressed himself against his back. "Thanks, Princess," he murmured against his jaw, grinning when the man took hold of his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

He started, however, when Alfred tensed and pulled away, turning to look at him with a sharp expression, still holding the Canadian's hand in his. His attention was drawn to the beige wrap bandages peaking out from beneath the sleeve of his sweater. "Matthew, what is-"

Laughing weakly he retracted his arm, only to have Alfred tighten his grip on his hand and pull it back. Al was watching him worriedly, blue eyes confused and almost scared. "S'nothing, Al," he reassured with a kiss. Everything when said with a firm kiss on the cheek makes it that much more reassuring, right? "Don't worry about it."

Alfred didn't buy it for a minute; he held fast. "Sorry, but I feel like I should be a little bit worried."

Groaning, Matthew cursed. "Mathias, tell him there's nothing to worry about, for fucksakes."

Plucking his earbuds out, the Dane turned in his chair and studied the couple; the way Matthew was biting his lower lip nervously and looking a bit peeved all at once, and how Alfred was gripping his hand. He chuckled lowly. "Oh, he's telling the truth, man. You can chill," he said with a flippant wave. "S'only a very minor sprain and some heavy bruising."

Matthew sighed when Jones' eyes began to filter a look of relief. The hand began to loosen on his and, looking sheepish, he ran his fingers over his knuckles, giving Matt an apologetic smile.

"We happened to run into Jason on our way here and Matthew might have lunged for his throat."

Alfred's eyes went wide; the hand tightened again. Matthew hung his head.

"Sometimes I really hate you," he said as Alfred turned to look at him, looking properly horrified and enraged all at once.

"Well, I had to stop you from killing him somehow, and grabbing your wrist happened to be the first thing I was able to do," Mathias said, holding his hands up as he placed himself on the defensive. "I mean there'd have definitely been nothing wrong if you killed him. Bastard has it coming. But murder charges would look bad, and then picking up murder charges on the same day you quit your job? Might look even worse, bro, and y'mightn't get a job like that."

"But dude, I was _so close to breaking his jaw,_" Matthew groaned. "Why would you stop me from doing that?"

"I'm a caring friend," Mathias retorted. "And, I mean, as insincere as it might have been, the fucker did _sort of _apologize."

"Because 'I'm sorry' makes up for four years of emotional and physical abuse."

Grimacing, the Dane sighed. "Okay, so it doesn't," he admitted. "At all. But it takes some serious balls to stand there in front of a kid you abused and kicked out and apologize for all of it without turning around and screaming 'PUNK'D' before bolting, right?"

He had a point there. Not much of one, but with a little work, it could bloom into something that made a shred of sense.

As they talked, Alfred's hand had tightened to the point that the grip was actually painful. Wincing beneath it, he bit his lip. "Alfred, that hurts," he choked out. "Lay off on the death grip, Princess, or I definitely won't be punching anyone with it anytime soon."

Immediately letting go, Alfred murmured a harried sorry before kissing the front of his hand. Matthew blushed and smacked him over the back of the head with an embarrassed snort before the man turned back to finish off his dinner.

"Well, you did give him a good swift kick in the package that brought tears even to _my_ eyes," Mathias commented as he turned back to his computer. "So I think you got your message across."

Quietly snickering, Matthew gave Alfred another comforting peck on the cheek before returning to the table, sitting down in front of his laptop and running his hands up and down his face a few times. It was like he was rubbing away the stress. "I mean, it threw me for a bit of a loop, running into him," he murmured. "I barely recognized him at first, but he recognized me right away. And then he turned around and said sorry? Maybe it wasn't him."

"He could have a doppelganger," Alfred piped up.

"Maybe my mom married the evil twin instead of the good twin. And the twin I ran into today was the good one who somehow secretly knows everything that happened and because he felt bad because of his evil twin's assholeness he assumed his identity and apologized in his place."

"Or," Mathias offered, looking between the two of them, "he's dying or something and apologizing was on his bucket list?"

The three fell silent. Matthew and Alfred shot him a skeptical looks before the student ducked his head.

"Okay, fine. He didn't exactly look like he was dying."

"I wouldn't be that lucky for him to keel over just yet," Matthew snarled bitterly, glowering at the laptop screen as he typed with a renewed viciousness.

Alfred winced at his wording but said nothing; the guy would probably throw one of the computers at him if he did.

No one spoke much after that, except for the occasional mutterings between the two men sat at the table as they compared job search findings. The lawyer, once he had finished the dinner left for him, which had been apparently been cooked for him by the Dane and not Matthew, he had taken to reading through some magazines that were beginning to pile up on the coffee table. There were issues upon issues of the Rolling Stone, a few issues of GQ and a pile of Psychology Today magazines that the State Attorney had told him to look into; those refresher courses he had been taking over the past few weeks were helpful and he was taking more away from them this time around, but with the magazines he had been going through, they seemed that much more interesting.

Hunkering himself down on the sofa, draping his body across the expanse of it, Alfred turned the light on in the corner as Oreo decided to make herself known with a quiet, sleepy mewl.

He crooned softly in the cat's general direction, babbling affectionate nonsense that she clearly didn't understand. Smiling tiredly as the animal trotted along the arm of the sofa, affectionately butting the American's cheek with her head, Alfred scratched the top of his before sliding down a bit further so that his head was on a pillow.

Trailing his fingers down along her delicate spine, watching as her whiskers twitched, the cat padded down over his shoulder and chest before settling in the dead center of his torso, rump facing him. _Yeah, glad to see you too, cat,_ he thought, trying his best to manoeuvre the magazine around the animal's body. She proved to be a perfect blockade. All furry booty that obstructed his line of vision.

So he abandoned the idea altogether, tossed the psychology magazine back onto the coffee table and instead chose to light up a smoke. The fuzzy little blanket he wore purred her content, sending vibrations along his torso. It was almost enough to lull him to sleep, but given the fact that he had a lit cigarette there was potential for disaster. He instead tried to make heads or tails of the intermittent discussions the other two were having.

But the fact that they were barely talking didn't help him in his endeavours of staying awake; that was the problem with having a good meal - the better it was, and the more filling, the sleepier he got. Comfort food was the Devil's plaything. He yawned, briefly masking it with the back of his hand before taking a drag and then glancing through his text messages. There was nothing there that he hadn't replied to, with the exception of a particularly snarky one-liner from Mattie about his ability to-

Oh.

Well that was both rude _and _inappropriate.

He promptly deleted the message in fear that should someone ever go through his phone for any particular reason they would find that text and he would be shamed into running away forever. Not to join the circus though; that was overrated as sin. He would have to buy his own island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - because he fucking could and he _had _looked into it before - to spend the rest of his life living as a technology-abstinent hermit.

(While there, he would develop a fair-trade program with the indigenous population of the island, and he would be their leader and they would make him margaritas and grilled mango/papaya/pineapple/banana skewers while he shared stories of the horrors of New York City traffic jams.)

He gave it a moment of thought, watching the animation as the message was deleted. Honestly, it didn't sound like _that_ bad of a life. He could probably handle it if he really wanted to, right? Of course he could; he was man enough for anything, fuck what Chrissy said about his manhood. Bitch didn't know nothing about his manhood.

Content with the mental chest-thumping he had indulged in, Alfred stretched as he took another drag, slowly letting the smoke out through his nose before refocusing his attention on the two unusually quiet men in his apartment. He had been around Mathias enough to know that the guy was so loud and obnoxious that he could have earned himself the title of being Gilbert Beilschmidt and Jeff Wills' illegitimate love child. Given how quiet Mathias was - and how focused his partner looked; he was quiet enough as it was at times - they were actually dead serious with what they were doing. Which interested him and so he decided to focus on their endeavours once more.

From what Alfred could make out of their sporadic conversations, there were a surprising number of places hiring. Neither of them had been anticipating many places to send out their resumes, but they had compiled a growing list. Most of them were jobs like what the two had just come from - minimum wage jobs that wouldn't get you anywhere in life - and a lot of them were table waiting jobs.

Picturing Matthew as a waiter was a funny picture.

Yawning and pushing away from the laptop, Mathias ran a hand through his wild hair and shut his eyes. "Listen, do you mind if I leave my stuff here?" he asked tiredly. "My eyes are burning and I kind of want to go back to my place and sleep."

"I'm going to say yes," Matthew laughed, settling back as his hands slid down into his lap. "But it's Alfred's table, not mine and-"

"Yeah, y'can leave your shit there," Alfred bellowed from the sofa. His words were loud enough to frighten the cat into bolting - digging her claws into his chest as she used him as a launch pad. He yelped, drawing his knees to his chest as his eyes flew wide because damn that _really hurt. _

The two laughed and Matthew trailed behind Mathias as he headed to the door, excitedly planning out the next day. Job hunting was what the majority of it entailed, but they were also going to spend some time dropping off university applications.

Following the Canadian's movement with his eyes as he shut the door behind the other blonde and went back to the table, Alfred frowned. He looked so exhausted but yet he continued to do up applications, put together his portfolio - a bunch of his canvases were piled on the floor and there was a camera on the table - and do up resumes. He was nothing short of a trooper.

Turning his attention to the magazine he could now freely look through without having to worry about the bodily obstruction of a cat, he picked it up and began to flick through it. Some of the articles were on stuff he had already covered in university. Although, there was a gigantic article on cocaine addiction. _Not _what he wanted to be reading about.

Instead he chose to focus on an article about racial biases and how a doctor's unconscious racial bias could actually influence how they treated a patient based on their 'race', or so to speak. And to an extent, it was also prominent in the justice system - just another one of its many and multiplying flaws.

(But hey, he could always hope that he could somehow make it better, or at least in his jurisdiction. Starting small was the way to go, and if he could stretch it out from there, then he would be serving a purpose for once.)

Moving from that article on to one centering on the psychology of the placebo effect - and growing bored with it almost immediately - Alfred tossed the magazine onto the table and grabbed up his newest copy of GQ. That was more like it; fuck the prescribed books. He wanted some mindless reading.

Although he did enjoy informative texts of the sort, whether they involved psychology, law, politics or philosophy (his minor was in philosophy, after all), he didn't exactly want to spend all his time reading them after he had spent the whole godforsaken day alternating between being stuck in traffic and listening in on the court case from hell poor old Chris was in charge of.

Pavel and his court room antics - he had already almost caused two mistrials and Alfred had learnt that his brother's face could turn some very interesting shades of purple - were going to be the death of both him, Arthur and Chris.

Not once, though, had he been brought up, and Alfred felt as though he had finally hit a small streak of luck; the case was nearing an end, but it would be set aside for two weeks in December for Christmas. Then by the middle of January everything would be settled, the verdict given and Jones knew by then he would be clear of conscience and, once that case was over, he'd go in for his year-end review and then he'd take over from Chris.

Alfred let out a low whoosh of withheld air before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Another two weeks of sitting in on the trial and dealing with being as antsy as all hell and wanting to get back down there and own the floor.

Sure, doing paper work was a grand waste of time and an easy slaughter of a few forests, and he loved his volunteer work and visiting schools and helping with all those programs more than anything, what he missed was the actual atmosphere of being in a court room. The tension, so thick to the point of palpability, was almost like a cheap drug to him - something that made him snort at the comparison - and he lived for it. Arguing the defence, the questioning, more arguing, more questioning. Getting the bad guy and putting them in their proper place, or so to speak. He just loved it.

Which he thought to be kind of funny, given he didn't even want to be a lawyer in the first place. It just sort of happened: that he got recommended into the law program at Harvard, and he went with it. He didn't go into law with any long-term ambitions - he had been both high _and_ hungover when he had agreed to do law with Chris.

The fact that things had worked out for him in the end and he had actually been successful had been nothing but a brutal fluke.

Flipping the November issue of GQ shut once he had skimmed through some of the articles, he glanced first to his watch - it was close to nine - and then he glanced over to where his partner was.

Matthew had returned to the computer when Mathias left what was nearing an hour and a half ago, and he seemed to have absolutely no intentions of leaving the spot anytime soon. He was hunched over, head in one hand and his lower lip was in his mouth. Alternating between the two computers he had set up, his hand drifted from keyboard to keyboard as he skimmed down through whatever it was he was doing. Stress practically exuded from him and his face, illuminated by the dull glow of the monitors, was drawn and tired-looking. A proper nervous wreck just waiting to happen.

Watching him for a moment, Jones rested his head against the side of the sofa before he decided that enough was enough; if he was on the other side of the room and could easily tell that his lover was stressed beyond all reasoning - and by his own doing, not that of an external source - then there was no way he was letting him carry on like it. He'd be in tears or throwing his guts up before the night was out.

Standing with a stretch and stepping around some of the books and papers that had slid to the floor, he approached the young man.

"Here, Matt, how about you give all these resumes and cover letters and job and university searching a break," he murmured. The poor guy was growing more and more frazzled by the moment; it really showed when he jumped nearly a foot off the chair with a yelp when his partner approached. Taking his hands, he pried him away from the keyboard, easily maneouvering his slight body up and away.

"A-Al, wait," he babbled, trying to turn them around so he could get back to the table. "I'm almost done-"

"I don't care," said Alfred calmly. "Put it away; I can practically feel the stress coming off of you. We both know what you get like when you start to get stressed about things like this."

Matthew hesitated and, grudgingly, allowed himself to be led away from his mess of organized resumes, university applications and other various things of that nature. The broad hands on his shoulders were reassuring, as was the mouth at the back of his head and Matthew sighed, sinking back into the man's touch. "I suppose," he murmured.

"It's bad enough you had two or three panic attacks last week," the lawyer said softly, kissing along his neck as he began to massage his shoulders. Indigo eyes fluttered shut and Matthew practically whined at the tension-easing pressure. "I don't think it's good for what little sanity you have left-" he received an elbow in the diaphragm, "- to be inducing panic attacks or borderline nervous breakdowns."

"Mm, yeah, whatever," Matthew said, waving his hand flippantly.

Deny it all he wanted, Jones knew he knew what he was talking about; he had spent enough time around him to know some of the signs of his anxiety flaring up. There were times when it happened on a regular basis, but then there were times when he functioned, for lack of a better word, normally, pills or not. Alfred sighed and ruffled the curly blonde locks before moving in the direction of the sofa to crash down on.

Standing there for a moment, hands on his hips and looking out over the darkened city with the lights from other buildings reflecting over his cheeks, Matthew let out a yawn. With a whine Al tugged on his jeans and huffed when he had his attention, pulling him closer.

Matthew hummed acceptingly, dropping his weight on the couch. Stretching languidly the artist curled up with him, sliding down in between his side and the back of the sofa, hand resting on his stomach and looping their legs together.

"Cozy?" Alfred asked, wrapping his arm around him.

Matthew nodded, choosing to simply snuggle into his side, shutting his eyes and letting out a small sigh. He licked at his lips. Closing his eyes as well, Jones tipped his head back and smiled a little as he doodled inane designs against a thin shoulder.

Even though it would massacre his back in so many different ways, he was tempted to say screw it and stay there on the sofa for the rest of the night with him. Matthew was groggy enough to the point that he probably wouldn't want to get up, and well, neither did he. He was comfortable, curled up the way they were, and didn't want to move. But his back was already beginning to knot where he had hurt it a few months ago and common sense told him to get up and drag their sorry asses to the bedroom because otherwise he'd be hopped up on painkillers the next day.

Considering moving, he peered at the man lying beside him; eyes shut, face relaxed and fuck him he looked so utterly at peace. Of _course_ he would when his back was beginning to scream murder. Instead of waking the half-asleep artist, he grabbed the quilt over the back of his sofa and draped it messily over them. He placed a kiss to his forehead before settling down altogether.

They couldn't have been that way for any more than ten minutes, Alfred finding himself in a hazy, semi-comatose state that left his head foggy and his senses numbed, when the doorbell - a rarely used fixture in his apartment - rang, startling them both back into an unwanted awareness.

"_Who the fuck_-"

Matthew cut off his words with a groan as he sat up, flopping over to the other end of the sofa to turn on a tabletop lamp, effectively blinding themselves. Draped over the arm of the sofa, sleep-flushed cheek pressed into the material and looking properly groggy and disoriented, he grunted. "Want me to get it?"

Running his hand down over his face and throat, letting it settle over his pounding heart, Al nodded. "Might as well," he sighed. "My back is killing me already."

"I still think you should have seen a doctor," he muttered as he stood, tossing the blanket back over the lawyer, "because whatever you did to it that night at the gym, your back hasn't been the same since. You're gonna be fucked if you don't get something done for it."

"Yada yada, old man at the age of twenty-seven," Alfred snapped. "Whatever. Just answer the door already. If it's a salesman, tell him I'm filing a lawsuit against him for being a public nusiance."

Shaking his head as he staggered over to the door, stepping with a little more force as he tried to work some feeling back into his numbed feet and legs, he nearly walked smack into the door as he fumbled with the handle. At the same time he tried to straighten out his clothing in an attempt at appearing presentable. Not that it mattered, really, especially if it was a salesman. Maybe it would be a vacuum salesman, and he could tell him to go and suck himself. He snickered.

Vacuum salesman, telling him to go suck himself. _Funny stuff right there._

At that moment Matthew decided that he needed a lot more sleep than he realized.

He did not need to say that to anyone, though, and nor would there be any charges pressed that night for the individual at the door was a woman who stood at least three inches taller than himself. She had bobbed blonde hair, bright blue eyes and the smile she wore was a stunning one: all white, straight teeth, female charm and nothing short of charisma. Matthew realized with some dim annoyance that it might have been love at first sight, but he ignored that in favour of giving the woman a smile. "Can I help you?"

When he spoke, her smile faltered and she looked away, scratching at her cheek before glancing to the slip of paper she held in a dainty hand. "I think I must have the wrong apartment," she murmured. Her voice was accented, but not by anything distinguished; it was more like a smattering of different dialects, like someone who had spent time in various countries or states, long enough to pick up the regional accent but not long enough to lose all of her original one. "Sorry to have bothered you, dear."

As she made to leave, Matthew shook his head. "Well who are you looking for?" he asked. "Maybe I could help."

She turned back to him. "Do you happen to know if Alfred Jones lives around here?"

Grinning, Matthew nodded. "This is his apartment, yeah," he said. "I'm his … friend. Did you want me to get him for you?"

The woman's face lit up and she was positively ecstatic; it looked as though she were about to throw herself at the Canadian to embrace him but at the last moment seemed to think better of it. "That would be wonderful!"

Laughing, Matthew ushered her into the porch, shutting the door behind them, walking around the corner to where Alfred sat.

"There's a lady at the door for you," he said, jerking his head back in the direction he had come from. "Tall, blonde hair and blue eyes. Looks kinda young. She's awfully pretty."

Alfred stood, hand going to his back with a grimace before he straightened. "Oh?" he asked, a crooked smile sitting on his lips. "I don't remember the last time that happened."

Moving past the Canadian as the other went to go back to the dining table - Alfred gave him the dirtiest look he could possibly manage - he approached the woman in the porch only to stop dead in his tracks, eyes growing wide with surprise and delight. Upon seeing him, the woman's expression brightened up and she covered her mouth before running over to him with an excited squawk and hugged him close.

Laughing, Alfred wrapped his arms around the woman and shut his eyes as his lover looked on in confusion as he straightened up the mess on the table. Was she a university friend or something? Someone he had grown up with? Williams shrugged it off and shut the computers before moving to organize the resumes and cover letters.

"Holy shit," the lawyer laughed. "What are you doing here, mom?"

Matthew dropped the papers he was holding, eyes widening.

_Mom_?

He looked between the two and, well, that explained where Alfred got his looks and his immaculate taste in clothing; although dressed casually she looked flawless in her pencil skirt, t-shirt and flats. She didn't appear to be any older than thirty even though that was clearly not the case, she was still beautiful in a gawky, teenage sort of way that made absolutely no sense but it just worked. And it was crazy that she was taller than both of them, so he assumed that Alfred's father was also shorter than her, because it would make no sense for him to be shorter than either of his parents.

Laughing and following the lawyer as he led her over into the living room, she was grinning and bordering on giddy. "I've moved back to New York to take back up my writing with Vogue and getting involved with New York's Fashion Week," she said, sitting down on the sofa beside her son. "Your father told me that this is where you had gone once you graduated, and that your brother is living here in the city, too. So I called up Arthur and visited him and his family, and then I got your address from him and hi! Hello! Oh, I missed you so much sweetie!" She let out a squeal and latched onto the baffled, laughing Alfred, practically smothering him against her.

Watching them and despite how he chuckled at the scene, Matthew felt his heart plummet and, as ashamed as he was to admit it, he was feeling slightly envious. But he said nothing, just kept a smile plastered on his face as the two talked in rapid tones as he sat at the table, slowly putting papers together. He felt like an excuse of a human for being jealous of his boyfriend seeing his mother after the first time in what had clearly been a long while.

But he couldn't help it. It was wrong of him, and he knew it. Telling himself that didn't stop the burning in his eyes or the lump in his throat or the knot in his chest. None of it went away just because he told himself it was wrong to be feeling those emotions. All of those things just made him even angrier with himself and he almost stapled his finger to the papers he was holding twice but that was his own fault for not paying attention to what he was doing.

'_Sue me for missing her,_' he thought, gritting his teeth as his vision blurred over. '_Fucking sue me._'

One would think that, over time, things would be easier to deal with. That time would make things better. But no, it doesn't. It rarely does.

Thankful for being sat back-on to them, Matthew wiped at his eyes with a shuddery sigh as a tear slipped down over his cheek unwanted. He'd let them talk; he had no right butting in as they caught up on what was apparently several years worth of missed time. His mother had been to his first graduation from university, for getting his bachelor's degree, but after that they hadn't had any contact because she had gone back to Sweden.

Stapling together papers with a renewed viciousness despite being able to barely see what was in front of him, Matthew sniffled again and swiped at his eyes before sticking the papers into a brown file folder. Maybe he'd just spend the rest of the evening doing this and he'd head back to his place when he was done, and then-

"Dude, Matt, come over, would you?"

Fuck. Matthew shut his eyes and bit his lip, clearing his throat.

Standing and shuffling the papers so that they were in one big pile, he wiped his eyes over once more for good measure and went over to the sofa, dropping down to sit on the arm.

Alfred looked up at him and frowned. "You okay?"

Plastering a smile on his face, Matthew wondered if his laugh sounded as phony as it felt. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "I kind of started to fall asleep, that's all."

"See, I told you to leave that shit alone for the night." The look Alfred wore told him he didn't believe a single word of it, but he didn't call him out on it. "Anyway, Matt, this is my mom, Amelia. Ma, this is Matt."

Matthew smiled at his boyfriend's mother and laughed sheepishly. She was smiling brightly, as if to say it's so nice that my little boy finally has some friends! Oh, if only she knew about his other friends. "So, are you Al's roommate?" she asked, leaning towards them as she spoke.

They exchanged a look. Matthew arched an eyebrow. Alfred grinned a little and gave a one-shouldered shrug before turning to Amelia, who was beginning to look a little bit confused by the look the two had exchanged. "I might as well be totally honest," Al said. "Mom, Matt's my boyfriend."

Amelia stared at him, eyes wide and her expression frozen - it looked kind of silly, with her wide, gap-toothed smile the way it was, and Matthew suppressed a snort. After a moment she pulled back a little and blinked. "Boyfriend?" she asked, looking between them. "_Really_?"

Shifting uncomfortable, Alfred laughed quietly. "Yep. Boyfriend."

For another moment there was no real reaction from the woman as she digested her son, whom she had clearly presumed to be a straight male up until that point, essentially shattering that belief. Or at least half of it. Then she let out a delighted squeal and grabbed hold of the Canadian, who let out a startled yell as he was dragged across his partner and into a very tight embrace.

"Oh Alfie, I'm so pleased to hear this!" she exclaimed, practically smothering the artist as Alfred looked on, choking on his laughter while the younger was slowly turning red in the face because his air supply was being cut off by the affectionate chokehold he was in. "And you are just positively adorable! Oh, I bet you two are just such an adorable couple! This is so awesome! Absolutely precious!" She gave another delighted squeal.

Matthew had given up on trying to breathe and was beginning to hope that receiving oxygen via osmosis through his skin was possible.

Prying his lover out of his mother's arms, Alfred shook his head. "Yeah, that's mom for you," he said with a laugh. "You can dress her up but you can't take her out without the risk of affectionate suffocation or general embarrassment."

Amelia's cheeks turned pink and she giggled a little. "Oh, I'm sorry sweetie," she crooned as she straightened Matthew's glasses and fixed his hair. "I'm just so happy about this! How long have you two been dating for? Are you casual dating or is this for serious?"

Before Alfred had a chance to answer, Matthew nodded. "I think it's been, like, almost six months now? Something around there?" He looked to Alfred for comfirmation and the lawyer seemed to think it over before he nodded.

"Yeah, cause it was mid- to the end of May when we started dating," he said. "And, well, I've been under the impression that it's for serious."

Matthew chuckled with a small bob of the head. "Yeah, for _very_ serious." Alfred, smiling, leant over and kissed his temple, placing a hand over the other's and twining their fingers together.

Amelia squealed again before latching on once more to the artist and cuddling him close, practically shoving his face into her rather ample bosom. This time though, she wasn't entirely choking him, so Matthew stayed there as she crooned and petted his hair, much to her son's humiliation and his partner's not-so-secret enjoyment.

The woman babbled happily about how nice it was that Alfred was finally seeing someone and oh, this was just wonderful, he was finally happy and it was just so nice and wonderful and all those kinds of words. Alfred, red-cheeked and thoroughly embarrassed, just slumped a little in his spot and mumbled _mooommmm _in the most petulant sounding voice he could muster.

Sitting up and giving him a gentle elbow to the ribs, Matthew gave him a tentative smile even though it felt like it was going to break his face. "Listen here, Mr. Jones," he teased, "that's what moms are supposed to do."

"Oh, which reminds me," Amelia said, sitting up a little bit straighter, "when did you change your last name, Alfred?"

Matthew's eyes went wide and he looked over to the lawyer with a 'what the hell' sort of expression. Alfred sighed. "When I was legally old enough," he said flatly. "First year of university I changed it. I didn't want any ties to the old man after that."

"Does he know you changed it to my maiden name?" she asked quietly. Matthew was beginning to feel uncomfortable, but when he moved to stand and leave them there to talk, Alfred grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him back down into his lap.

"Yeah, he does, actually," Alfred said, draping an arm over Matt's mid-section, lazily keeping him in place. "There was stuff he had to sign, and he was fine with it. It kind of surprised me."

"I'm just surprised that you chose my last name to change to when there are so many other ones out there that you could have chosen," Amelia hummed pleasantly. "I'm kind of pleased that you did."

"No, it was just the only name I could possibly take as my own because of the rest of America has been overpopulated by other names. Jones just happened to be a fluke," Alfred said dryly. "My original plan was to change it to Schwarzenegger."

Before his mother could say anything, Matthew slid out of his partner's grasp and gave him a hard punch in the upper arm that actually _hurt. _"You little bastard!" he declared. "Don't you dare speak to your mother like that!"

"Make me!"

"Don't even get me started, boy, because it won't be pretty."

"Well I'm not the one who's being an abusive brat."

"And I'm not the one who's sassing the beautiful woman who put life into me, you ungrateful whelp."

"Boys-"

Alfred feigned offence. "Excuse me? Well at least I'm not the one arguing like a child."

"And at least I'm not the one continuing and provoking said argument!"

"Actually yeah, you are."

"So are you, Al!"

"Am not!"

"_Boys_-"

"Are too!"

"Am not, so shut up you PMSing little bitch."

Matthew gave him another hard smack accompanied by an insulted squeak. Amelia, trying to suppress her laughter at this point, had outright given them both up as a collective lost cause. "The fuck did you just call me, Princess?"

Alfred was smirking darkly. "I could've said something worse, but I don't want to be offending my Ma."

Turning an interesting shade of red, his lover laughing out right, Matthew faced Amelia and took her hand in his. "Your son is horrible," he stated, shoving away the kissy face that was approaching him through his peripheral vision. "Wonderful, but absolutely horrible."

"Don't be hatin'," Al murmured, edging forward and plastering himself against the younger man's back. He kissed Matt's cheek and grinned at how he squirmed. "You know you love me."

"Yeah, you tell yourself that," Matthew said gruffly. As hard as he tried to bat away his affection, he still sunk back into Al's grasp and stayed there, evidently content to do so.

He remained there as he and Amelia talked, hands covering the ones that were settled on his lower stomach, head tucked in the crook of Alfred's neck. He wasn't listening to what they were saying; he was too busy with his own thoughts of wondering what it would be like to sit down and talk with his mother. Would they still have a good relationship? What would they have been able to talk about?

Frankly, Matthew didn't quite care for words; being able to give the woman a hug and a kiss would have been sufficient enough for him, given he hadn't even been able to do that before she died. He had been at a volleyball tournament in Ohio when he had gotten the call from Jason. Shutting his eyes briefly as he recalled what had been said to him, he felt his stomach turn.

"_Listen, Matt,_" Jason had been gruff, but at the same time, it had been in a quiet, apologetic sort of way that he was unaccustomed to and it frightened him. "_I don't really know how to put this, but your mom passed away this morning. Doctor says it was the medicine that made her sicker, her fever wouldn't break and they just lost her-_"

That was all Matthew could remember from that phone call. No matter how hard he tried to, nothing came back to him from it. He could vaguely remember getting a flight back to New York the same day he got the call; the condolences he got from his coach, teammates and the parent volunteers that went with him. But after that there were three or four days of just … nothing.

Feeling tears forming behind his closed eyes, Matthew opened them carefully and excused himself from the sofa, ignoring Alfred's questioning stare and muttering something about having to use the bathroom. He wasn't really sure if that was actually what he said because his mumbles sounded incoherent to even him, but he seemed to accept this as a plausible answer and turned back to talking with his mother.

Once in the bathroom, alone and with the door locked, Matthew sank to the floor, biting down on his lower lip until he tasted blood in his mouth as he finally gave in and let tears roll down over his cheeks. He muffled his sobs though; sure he was all the way upstairs, he still didn't want to risk one of them hearing him crying.

When his chest started to hurt and his stomach began to turn and he could feel himself beginning to retch did he stop a moment to try and breathe. As he did that he struggled with hauling out his phone to text Gilbert, essentially begging him if it would be alright for them to hang out. He left out the part that he would more than likely spend half of the time sobbing into him.

Swallowing against the bile rising in his throat, he gave another dry sob as he waited for Gilbert to reply.

His mother hadn't been doing too poorly when he had left, and honestly, that had been the only reason he had gone to the tournament in the first place. It had been the first one of the year, happening during the first week of December. His mother had been sitting up in her bed, slowly getting back to eating solid foods and she was responsive, laughing and acting like she was feeling the best she had been in months. That was December 2nd. He left on the 3rd, and at her insistence. She was gone by the 6th, and he had been due back the 9th.

_It just wasn't fair. _

The tears returned despite the fact that he felt dehydrated and he grit his teeth in frustration as he opened the message he got from Gilbert, saying he could come over and wondering if everything was okay. Matthew deleted the message instead of replying and stood, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. Glancing in the mirror he grimaced when he saw just how much of a train wreck he looked and, running the water and grabbing a cloth, he soaked it and drenched his face with it. When he looked back to his reflection, he didn't look nearly as bad. He even managed a watery smile.

But that was a bad idea because it made him look like he was in an immense amount of pain with his spleen or something.

Flushing the toilet and giving his face another once-over with the cloth before discarding it in the sink, he finger combed his hair, pulled back his shoulders and straightened himself out before he left the bathroom. A little part of him had been expecting Alfred to be there, waiting for him to demand what was wrong because he had some sort of sixth sense when it came to this sort of thing, but he wasn't there. It was probably a good thing.

Taking a steadying breath and formulating a quick and easy lie as he headed down over the stairs, Matthew went to the sofa and stood at the back of it. He grinned at them, placing his hands on the back and the two looked up at him. Amelia gave him a blissfully oblivious, content smile but Alfred's began to slip upon seeing the other.

"Listen, I'm gone for the night," he said, working an apologetic note into his voice. "Gil texted me while I was in the bathroom and asked if I could come over for a while. I think he's dealing with some sort of emotional crisis in trying to figure out which movie to watch and requires my assistance."

"Yeah, no problem," Alfred said. "You can take the Jeep if you want."

"Thanks," he said, smiling a little. Turning his attention to Amelia, he gave her a warm smile. "It was nice meeting you, um-"

"You can just call me Amelia, sweetie," she said brightly, standing up and moving around the sofa. "And it was so lovely meeting you, too! We'll all have to go out to dinner soon, maybe within the next weekend or two! Wouldn't that be just grand?" She pulled Matthew into a tight hug, startling him into tensing for a brief moment before hesitantly returning the hug, biting his lower lip as his eyes started to water.

With a chuckle, Matthew nodded, pocketing the car keys that were tossed to him. "Yeah, it'd definitely be awesome," he said. And it would be; he liked Alfred's mom. A little bit eccentric and overbearing, but astonishingly doting and adoring. He just needed to get over the minor detail that was currently dragging him down to oceanic trench level. Or, not so much as get over it as try to cope a little bit better.

Heading over to the door once she gave him another good, firm and loving squeeze, Alfred trailed behind Matthew and followed him out into the hall, shutting the door.

"Listen, Matthew, is everything alright?" Alfred asked.

"No, not entirely," replied the artist, hanging his head. When he said this, Alfred pulled him close and sighed. "But I'm just a jealous asshole, so I just need a few hours and drinks to get over myself."

"Mattie-"

He shook his head, but didn't pull away. "No, Al," he whispered, biting the inside of his cheek. "I'm just being ridiculous and I apparently still don't know how to cope, even after it being almost five years and-" he was cut off when Alfred pressed their mouths together, silencing him. It wasn't that he didn't want to hear what he had to say, but what he didn't want to hear was the younger man putting himself down.

Moving away, their lips still touching but just barely, Matthew sighed against his mouth as his eyes fluttered shut. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Really. I didn't mean to-"

"Didn't mean to what?" Alfred asked. He pulled him as close as he could get him and held on tightly. "Didn't mean to have a memory? Emotions? The capability of missing someone? I don't want you apologizing for being human, Matthew."

Considering his words, he blinked back the tears that were beginning to return and then nodded, shutting his and moving forward to give Alfred another kiss. Unfortunately, the other had the same idea and their mouths collided painfully and awkwardly, leaving them both with burning, swelling lips and quiet laughter as Alfred murmured 'let's try that again' before pulling him back in for a retake. Matthew practically melted against him this time and only when they were both nearing breathlessness did they pull apart.

"You go on and hang out with Gilbert," he murmured, pressing a kiss to a pale forehead. "And I'll call you tomorrow or something, okay? Or you can call me when you feel up to talking. I don't mind if you need a day or two alone. Just don't be too hard on yourself."

Nodding and earning another warm kiss, Matthew slipped out of his grasp and disappeared into the elevator, a sliver of a smile on his face. Alfred was left standing in the hallway, barefoot and with his hands in his back pockets, shoulders hunched and wondering how long it was going to be before he heard from his lover again.

(Surprisingly enough, it wouldn't even be two days and Matthew would just show up at his place, looking as though he felt a lot better than what he had previously. And when the Canadian sank against him on the sofa, slim legs going to wrap around his waist and calloused hands roaming over his chest and touching him in all the right places, he realized that yes, he was just _fine._)


	37. Chapter 37

**CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.  
**_Mm, smells like burnt gingerbread men. _

Covering the whole freezer door of his fridge was a large, whiteboard-style calendar and Matthew stood before it, hands on his hips and looking properly frazzled and over-tired. For the month of December, the whole thing was covered in a slew of dates, times and different colours, each signifying a different event and person. There were two weeks of the month, however, that had nothing written in them other than what the date was.

And those two weeks were in the process of being adorned with many, many different colours by the very frazzled owner of the calendar.

Alfred, who was in the process of chopping up potatoes, watched him infrequently as he decided to make himself an impromptu meal of taters.

In one hand, Matthew held onto a slip of paper and in the other a red marker. On the paper was his new schedule for the next few weeks; he had landed a job at a high-end restaurant in the Upper East side as a waiter and they had already given him almost fifty hours a week and he only had four shifts under his belt, two of which had been training; the other two he had worked on his own. Apparently his manager liked him and thought he had excellent people skills.

Matthew had simply told Alfred he had been desperate for waiters who were willing to work more than two shifts a week.

He had hired Mathias, too, which was obviously a testament to his desperation. The Dane, however, had taken a job elsewhere, choosing to work at the zoo in Central Park as a cage cleaner. Apparently scooping the shit out of bat cages was a more enjoyable form of employment than feeding the overpaid denizens of the Upper East Side.

"Okay, so," Matthew said, uncapping the pen with his teeth. "Between December 11th and December 24th, I have three days off. Throughout the entire month I have five days off. Today is December 8th. Christmas is in 17 days. I have no decorating done, and no shopping done. The days I'm working, I'm there from two to twelve, but if I get out of there by one then I'm lucky. I refuse to have another Christmas when where I'm living isn't decorated and the place doesn't smell like cookies, candy canes and pine. I will not have it. Alfred, we have to fix this."

"Why is this a 'we' situation?" Alfred demanded. "I don't even own any Christmas decorations."

Pausing mid-scribble, Matthew turned to look at the lawyer, eyes widening. "Well, I guess that's going to change then isn't it, Scrooge?"

Alfred bristled and scowled, slicing a potato with a little more vigour than necessary. "We can do something with my place if you want, considering we're having the guys over for dinner on Boxing Day and I guess it would suck to have a Christmas dinner in a place with no Christmas decorations."

"Which also brings another matter to attention. Who's having dinners that we're going to?" Matthew asked. "I know we're going to McKnight's on Christmas day, and Francis has gone back to Paris for Christmas. But who else?"

"We're going to Arthur's Christmas Eve, and Ma's going to that one, too. And then Chris, Vanessa, Allan, Chrissy and Jeff are coming over to my place on the twenty-sixth," Alfred said. "What about you? Is there any dinners that we're going to that I don't know about?"

"New Year's Day I'm going over to Gil's place to have dinner with his family and Mathias," Matthew said, "but that's not going on this month. So other than that, no, the only ones I'm going to is the on Christmas day with McKnight and his family. You're coming with me, right?"

"Obviously," Alfred chuckled, sprinkling some paprika over the potatoes he had diced. "I'll be murdered if I don't go with you."

"You got that right," sniffed the Canadian as he capped the red pen, undoing the cover on the green one and scribbling in the days they were having dinners and the places. When he put that one away, he opened the blue one and looked over his shoulder. "Alright, now, I need to know your schedule between … today and Christmas Eve."

Standing with the cookie tray of taters in hand, Alfred moved around the counter and slipped it into the oven before coming to stand behind the younger man, hands on his hip. "I'm not working today, the ninth, the seventeenth, eighteenth and then after the twenty-second I'm off until January 5th."

"Well, that's perfect!" Matthew declared. "I'm off today and tomorrow, the twentieth and the twenty-second. So on three of those days we can do some decorating and baking and general Christmas-y things, and then on the twentieth I can go out and get the few presents I need to buy! Man, this is fucking perfect!"

Alfred placed his chin on the artist's shoulder. "Why are you so excited about Christmas? Are you always like this?"

Matthew flushed and his mouth clamped shut. Squirming, he finished scribbling down the last of the lawyer's work days and he sighed. "It's the first time I've actually had enough money to properly celebrate Christmas, and the time off to do things. The last time I had a Christmas tree I was sixteen, and I'm just … I'm just excited about it, okay?"

Keeping his comments of just how silly it was to get excited over such a commercialized holiday as Christmas, Alfred simply kissed his cheek and smiled. "A'ight," he said. "If you want to be excited and decorate the living hell out of my place and yours, go for it. And bake all the treats you want, because I can guarantee you that I have every intention of eating whatever you make."

Turning around Matthew was grinning and he kissed him on the corner of the mouth. "Thanks, Ebenezer," he chuckled. "I knew I could count on you to have some fun and at least tolerate me getting in the spirit even though I know you're a big ol' Grinch."

"I'm not a Grinch," Alfred grumbled. "I've just had no reason to celebrate Christmas since I was twenty-years-old. That's seven years of no real Christmases, man. Give me another week or so and I'll be pissing myself with excitement."

Laughing, Matthew turned back to face the calendar, squeaking when broad hands strayed over his backside for the briefest moment. He slapped away the lawyer's hands with a scowl, squirming as he did and calling him a pervert.

Alfred's response was simply to tell him that he had a nice, firm bum and that a nice firm bum - thanks to all that bike riding - needed to be squeezed and fondled at all times when that chance arose, whether they were opportune or not.

Right now, however, was definitely an opportune one and so he decided to give that bum of his another squeeze before recoiling away from the uncapped pen that was swung in the direction of his good white t-shirt.

Returning to where he had been sat before after he checked the time on the stove, Alfred continued to watch Matthew as he scribbled down things in his illegible chicken scratch on the calendar. He was writing in green, so at least it wasn't anything work related. Which meant he was probably planning out his day and-

"How about we decorate your place first?" Matthew suggested, straightening up and placing the bottom of the pen to his chin as he stared at the calendar. "I mean, it's only 9am. We can get to Macy's and Walgreens and Target within the next hour, hopefully get things picked up for both places by at least four or five, including baking supplies. We can go to your place and start decorating because I mean we're both off tomorrow so it shouldn't matter if we're up until two or three, right?"

"Can I eat my taters first?" Alfred asked. "If we're going out and doing some serious shopping, I want my tummy to be armed."

Giving him a sidelong glance, Matthew hummed. "You should totally make us some omelettes," he hinted. "I mean, I got ham and all sorts of pre-diced veggies in the fridge, so it shouldn't be too much work."

"On it." The lawyer had stood and crossed the kitchen to the icebox before his partner had even finished speaking.

Stepping aside as Alfred grabbed the things he needed from the fridge, Matthew left the kitchen to get his wallet from his room. Snow was falling outside the window, quiet little flakes that would barely amount to anything by the end of the day despite the diligence of their falling, and he stopped before heading back out, a small smile on his face and another blossom of excitement making itself known. It would be fun, he had to admit it. And maybe he could get a gigantic, eight-foot Christmas tree for Al's apartment and they could string it with white lights and make paper chains for it out of construction paper and-

He was getting a little too ahead of himself with the planning, he knew, but that was okay because it was _Christmas. _And maybe his excitement would be contagious and Alfred would lighten up and be excited about it, too.

It wasn't like he couldn't blame him for not being too thrilled about the whole prospect of the season. While he himself had properly celebrated Christmas a few times, the only thing keeping him from enjoying it to its fullest had been the stress of working all the time (not that there'd be much of a difference now) and not having the finances to decorate where he lived, which had been the most upsetting part of it all, really, because he loved Christmas lights and pine garland and nutcrackers and goddammit he didn't care how commercialized and materialistic the whole mess of a season was, he quite enjoyed it.

Alfred on the other hand, Matthew was unsure about. Maybe he was just a Grinch, or maybe he just didn't enjoy all the madness of the time of year. There were some people like that. Then again, he had said something about it having been a while since he had actually engaged in the festivities, so there was a chance that had something to do with it.

Hopefully he'd warm up to it. Either way, he'd have to put up with Matthew blasting Christmas music for the next few weeks whether he wanted to or not.

Warming up to it sooner rather than later would definitely be a good thing for him.

Over the course of breakfast the two discussed the plan of action for the day and where it would take them, and they wisely decided that starting with the most important thing first would be the best idea - the Christmas trees. However, they'd need to take the Wrangler for that, which would require them going back to Al's place to drop off the Benz. On the way they'd pass a grocery store, and they needed to stock up on baking supplies.

Matthew had told Al that it would make more sense to stop there first to get the groceries they needed instead of backtracking or outright forgetting about the baking supplies. As he had said this, the lawyer simply stuffed his face with the omelette he had made, nodding absentmindedly as he jotted it down on his planner - he had found a little black book in his desk at work and had become slightly obsessed with it, but Matthew was pleased to see him relying on his iPhone less for menial tasks as such.

Then again, he had come to be shamefully attached to his Blackberry, but such was life. He couldn't stay immune to it forever; that, he had to admit, had actually been one of the benefits of being broke 99% of the time back when he had been living in Brooklyn. In not having the money to buy enough food, let alone foot a cell phone bill, he didn't have to worry about becoming technology-dependent like so many other people he knew. If he wanted to remember something or plan things out for the day, he simply wrote it down on a slip of paper and stuck it on either the 'fridge or in his pocket and hoped to God that he didn't lose it.

Now he was almost as bad as Alfred and he'd be fucked if he lost his phone or broke it; sure he had all the numbers stored in it written in a book as a means of backup just in case the worst came to pass, but he'd still be fucked.

Breakfast cleared away from the table, their winter coats on - or in their case, Matthew simply went out in his favourite red sweater and Alfred had thrown on his bomber's jacket over his plain white tee - they headed out for the day just as the clock chimed ten.

It was no surprise the places they went to were packed with people who had the same idea in mind, but neither of them expected it to be quite as busy as what it was. The lines were insane, the roads that brought them to these places even crazier and they decided that once they parked they weren't moving the vehicle anywhere else. Not until they had to leave for the day.

Despite the madness, it was a quiet enough day for them, personally. No crazy old ladies gone savage with shopping carts. Several times they bumped into people Alfred knew, be it from the court house or the municipal branches of the government he dealt with. Each time they ran into someone, Matthew was given a questioning look as if to say 'who the hell are you?', which wasn't overly surprising. Just uncomfortable.

Each time he was given that look, Alfred simply slid an arm around him - or tightened it, it all depended - and, smiling a charming little smile that Matthew hadn't even seen him give the _press_, introduced him as his boyfriend/partner/significant other/favourite man on the face of the earth. In short, the Canadian was floored.

After the first time he was introduced in such a way and they were once more left on their own to look through different artificial trees, Matthew turned to the DA and lightly tugged on the elbow of his jacket and murmured something about how there was a chance that people would talk about it - he was, after all, a person of high political and judicial influence, and shit was bound to be said about it. About them.

Let them talk was what Alfred said to him, smile growing as he defiantly took hold of Matthew's hand and boldly kissed him in the middle of Macy's, not caring who saw. The kiss was hard and tender all at the same time, tasted of cigarettes and coffee and the candy cane the greeter at the door had given them, and Matthew felt his cheeks grow hot as his head spun pleasantly from the unexpected delight it caused. As Al's hand went to rest on his cheek, his fingers keeping their other hands together, Matthew wondered what he tasted like to Al as he found himself sinking against the lawyer, easily losing himself in how wonderful and right and _normal_ it felt, then feeling slightly miffed when he pulled away.

_Yeah, we can let them talk_, he decided as Alfred nonchalantly pointed out a rather nice-looking imitation Douglas Fir that stood about nine feet tall and would be perfect for the lawyer's living room. He did it as though they had not just kissed in the middle of a department store, something the lawyer had never even attempted doing; hell, it wasn't even very often that they held hands when out in public places like this. But Alfred was wearing a shit-eating grin and his cheeks were bright pink as he babbled about how cool it would be to do a superhero-themed Christmas tree.

_Let them talk all they want because talk means nothing_. Matthew kept hold of Alfred's hand and moved a little bit closer, listening with a fond ear and a growing smile as the lawyer kept on chattering about the cool things they could do - themed trees, man, themed trees. It would be the shit. He was finally warming up to the idea of Christmas - or at least the decorating part of it. As for the rest of it, that had yet to be determined and would remain so until an unforeseen date in the near future.

And it was nearly eight hours later by the time the grocery, tree and decoration shopping came to an end, and the two made a vow to go nowhere near any sort of place of purchase for the next forty-eight hours less they were struck down by pain of death.

Neither of them were quite enjoying it when the eight hour mark rolled around and instead of immediately decorating when they got back to Al's place, the two simply collapsed in a heap on the floor once they had dumped their bags.

A big, useless heap of human and neither of them had the intention (or combined energy) to move. That blatantly _refused _to move. It just wasn't possible.

"I can't move," Alfred groaned, back to the wall. He had placed his hand on Matthew's lower back since he had sprawled out with his face down in the lawyer's lap.

A groan came from the inert Canadian and that was it; there were no other signs showing that he was alive. Breathing couldn't be counted because that was a whole lot of foolishness in itself.

They stayed that way for another while, until the clock by the door chimed seven, and Alfred let out another low groan, hand running down over his face as he yawned. "You want somethin' quick for dinner?" Al asked quietly, moving his hand from the artist's back to slide through his hair. Matthew simply shook his head, remaining stationary and earning a firm smack to the backside that brought a startled noise out of him.

"That's not the answer I wanted," Alfred declared, struggling to his feet and dragging the smaller man up with him. "I wanted to hear a 'fuck yeah I want something to eat!', not some sort of grunt that's caveman for 'not fucking likely'. I have some left over Chinese from when Jeff and I hung out the other night, and some garden salad I wanna finish before it goes bad or something."

Since no wasn't an appropriate answer, Matthew shucked his sweater off and threw it down with Al's jacket, narrowly avoiding the slushy pile that consisted of their footwear before sighing his agreement. "Heat it up good," he said. "I'm gonna go and dump the bags we got for decorating this place."

"What? Cold Chinese food is the best, man," he protested. "There's something wrong with you."

"We've already long-since established that there's something wrong with me, among many other things," said Matthew with an unnerving calm as he dumped a bag of garland on the floor and, with a box of white lights in hand, he stretched out the synthetic pine and began to wrap the lights around it. "However, it does not faze me. On the other hand, I still wish for my Chinese to be heated, not cold. So hurry up and get on that instead of standing there and stating the obvious."

"Too much shopping makes Matthew a grumpy boy," Alfred commented as he scooped some stir fry onto a plate before sticking it in the microwave. "Remind me to limit any sort of shopping with you to four hours or less."

Matthew rolled his eyes and bit his tongue, choosing instead to focus his exhausted frustrations on the unruly garland in his hands that was destined for the banister leading to the upstairs loft. Not only was it decorative, but also a subtle safety feature should either of them have to go down over the stairs in the middle of the night. Dual functionality in the same way a corkscrew was. Or maybe it wasn't; maybe he was thinking of a Swiss Army knife. He thought about it for a moment. Same difference. At least it would prevent to a certain extent a tumble down over them, right?

Probably not, but it had promise. Sort of. If you squinted and tilted your head to the right until the point your neck cracked. Then you could say it had some sort of promise to be a decorative safety feature.

Soon enough he was joined by the lawyer, who was carrying two uncapped beers under his arm and in either hand a plate containing some stir fry - not much in the means of Chinese food, but good enough - and salad.

"Talk about gourmet eating right here," Alfred said as he uncapped their beers with his teeth, pointedly ignoring the sarcastically muttered 'classy' that came from the other. "We dine like kings tonight, Pet."

"Don't we always?" Matthew asked, accepting the cold beer - which he placed to the back of his overly warm neck when he took a swig from it.

Alfred nodded, lips pursed before he stuffed some rice in his mouth. "Nine times out of ten, yeah maybe. But especially tonight. Where're you putting that garland?"

Biting his lip and then stuffing his mouth with some lettuce to keep from firing off a saucy retort that was bound to get him a poke, Matthew chewed slowly before answering: "on the banister along the loft and then down the handrail. I'm wrapping lights around it before I put it up, though."

"At least we saved ourselves _some _minor hassle by buying trees that have already been pre-lit," Al said. "That's an easy two or three hours taken off decorating."

"Oh, speaking of tree decorating," said Matthew, "wanna make paper chains to put on them?"

For a moment Alfred stared at him as though he had another head before tilting his own a little. "Really?"

Matthew flushed and then ducked his head, stuffing some stir fry in his mouth. "Nevermind. Stupid idea."

"Did you buy the construction paper?" Al asked, eyes alight. Williams perked back up a little, smile growing. "Because I have a load of double-sided scotch tape in my office. We can use that instead of staples, if you want."

"Double-sided tape is the coolest shit ever," Matthew declared. "You can start on something else and when we get the garland up we can make some paper chains then?"

Nodding, Alfred had a mouthful of beer before looking over his shoulder and staring at the box with his Christmas tree in it. Sliding his eyes along it as he contemplated the box and its contents. "How about you take care of putting up the garland, and I'll get to work on putting the tree up?" Alfred asked. "Because that fucker is getting up tonight."

Deciding that it was a good idea after all, Matthew wolfed down the rest of what was heated on his plate and stood, hoisting up the garland over his shoulder. He'd look for an outlet upstairs; if he remembered correctly, there was one on the far end right behind the bookcase that he could try and get to. As long as there were no hairy monsters lurking behind the bookcase housing the extensive collection of Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew and Halo novels, then everything would go great. No limbs would be lost, no fingers nibbled. But for all he knew it could've been ages since Alfred had last vacuumed behind there, so the dust bunnies might have mutated into dust monsters, so it could be slightly dangerous.

The danger would evidently be worth it in the end for the decoration factor. Dumping the garland on the floor by the case, Matthew sat with his back to the banister as he tried to worm his way into the small space between the railing and wood. Extension cord in hand with the string of lights attached to it, he blindly reached in and felt for the outlet with the prongs of the cord until there was a sudden white light from the garland.

It took him nearly half an hour of wrapping and stretching and cursing and trying to keep the synthetic pine from sliding off of the smooth metal railing, but eventually he got it to stay in place. And, if he dared to say so, he thought it looked rather nice. There was a gentle glow that came from the lights that softly illuminated the upper area of the loft and Matthew smiled.

Looking down into the main area, he watched as Alfred stood on one of the chairs from the dining table to put the last few sections of the tree on. They probably should have gone with the seven foot tree instead of the nine foot one, but Al had insisted if they were getting a tree for the place, then they were going to get one of the biggest ones there and they were going to make it fucking amazing.

No itty-bitty tree bullshit, no generic, family-sized trees. None of that shit. They were going all-out, big-ass pine tree.

And it seemed the lawyer was having a fine struggle with the artificial specimen, not as bad as the one Matthew had with the garland, but a struggle all the same.

Matthew surveyed the space around him, considering the possibilities for decorating before he trotted down over the steps and rejoined Alfred as he stepped down from the chair, staring up at the tree.

"I didn't even use the instructions," he gloated, "and this here is a beauty. A veritable work of art. Instructions are for suckers."

"You put the top in the wrong section," Matthew said simply. He rocked back and forth on his heels, hands in his pockets.

Alfred, still smiling, looked from the image on the box, to the tree and then back. "Shut up," he said. "I knew that. I just wanted to see how sharp you are."

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure you did."

"Don't sound so bitter. You're just pissed now because I managed to pull the wool over your eyes."

"Uh-huh, sure I am."

"I can totally read it in your eyes."

"Uh-huh, sure you can."

"M-Mattie…"

Silence.

"Okay, _okay_, I'll fix the damn tree and I'll use the instructions this time. Stop being a little bitch about it."

Matthew smiled sweetly and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "There's a good boy." Maybe it was a bad thing to admit to, but he occasionally got a kick out of being called a bitch. It gave him a cheap sort of thrill, the same kind of one you could quite easily procure through dumping a bag of pop rocks in your mouth all at once. This thrill, however, didn't cost him a dime. It was brilliant.

Leaving Alfred to fight with the tree for some sort of seasonal dominance, Matthew instead decided to grab the several boxes of icicle lights and dump their contents on the floor. Seven sets of a hundred white lights. He hummed to himself, smiling a little, as he straightened them out and attached the ends of the cords to one another. These lights, once he managed to find the ladder Alfred apparently had stowed away in his apartment - 'if you can't find that, then you can probably run downstairs and ask the doorman if you can borrow the one that's usually folded up in the storage room' - were going to be strung from one end of the windows to the other.

Turning away from his work to study the windows, he realized he probably could have made use of an eighth set of lights so he could drape them properly, but there was no going back now. Not because this was bat country or anything but because he was sat on the floor now, contemplating a pair of pyjama pants and a sweater. So seven sets of lights would have to be good enough.

He cringed at the thought of what Alfred's light bill for the end of the month would be. Given how the lawyer seemed to be pleasantly whistling away to himself as he checked the now-fixed tree's built-in lights for possible duds, he didn't seemed to be to bothered by the prospect of owing an astronomical amount of money.

Or maybe he just hadn't realized it yet.

Better not say anything.

(There was a reason why he hadn't bought very many lights for his own place.)

Massive string of lights in hand and the rest of them being dragged across the floor, Matthew slung them over his shoulder before dropping them on the floor in front of the windows. Leaving the end cord of the lights on the side by the outlet, he dragged the string the length of the windows. All he needed to do now was find a way to tack them up. He left them there and, after a good search of the apartment, returned with a small ladder under his arm.

Setting the small hunk of metal up against the window frame, Matthew licked his lips nervously and stepped on the lower rung. It remained firm beneath his slight weight and he relaxed immediately before climbing up it, lights and tacks in hand, and a roll of tape around his wrist just in case the tacks were useless.

"Hey, you want some help with that?"

Glancing over his shoulder, he found Alfred behind him and then he nodded. "Yeah, okay," he said. "If you're done with the tree and all."

Alfred stood close to the ladder and kept his hands loosely on the metal framing. "I just finished. And you should know that it's not safe to use a ladder by yourself. Because what if it slips out from under you? BAM broken neck. Not exactly a recipe for the most thrilling Christmas ever." Then, expression turning sly: "That, and the view is fantastic from down here. Seriously cannot go wrong."

Not seeing the look on his partner's face and missing the note in his voice, Matthew grinned, resting his elbows on the window ledge. "I've never really noticed the view you got up here," he admitted. "I mean, yeah I know you're pretty high up and all that, but-"

"I meant your ass, Matthew."

"Oh."

Silence; Matthew was nodding slowly, expression unreadable.

Alfred cleared his throat. "You wanna get started on them there lights?"

"If my foot slips and hits you in the face, it's not my fault," Matthew said in a flat voice. "And yes, I have every intention of starting on 'these here' lights."

Sticking out his lower lip, the lawyer huffed. "But you _do _have a nice bum…"

Matthew laughed quietly and shook his head. "Thanks, Princess," he mumbled, almost feeling embarrassed. "You have a pretty decent one yourself."

Ignoring the spluttered, indignant-sounding '_decent?_' that left the man behind him, he focused on taping the lights to the window ledge (tacks wouldn't work; he hadn't realized that the framing was metal). They were hard to drape properly, but that was okay; it was something that could be worked on later on in the evening, or maybe even tomorrow.

Finishing with the centre part, Matthew was about to get down from the ladder and shift it over when Alfred moved to the side and started to drag it - with the Canadian still on it - over along the floor to the next spot. With a startled yelp as the frame jerked to the side, Matthew wrapped his arms around the rungs as his eyes went wide with fright.

The noise the ladder made as it was dragged across the floor was unholy and Matthew wanted to claw his ears off the side of his head. Soon enough, the movement stopped but he still kept his arms latched tight to the metal.

"Is this spot good enough?" Alfred asked in his usual blithe way.

"P-_Per_fect."

"Awesome! Let me know when you want me to move it again."

_Sure he would._

Warily letting go as though he were expecting all hell to break loose - or for Alfred to move the damn thing without warning again - Matthew glanced over his shoulder only to find Alfred looking up at him with a warm smile on his face, gaze affectionate and sort of goofy. When he saw Matthew was looking at him, his cheeks flushed and his expression turned sheepish before turning away, scuffing the floor with his toe.

Facing the window ledge again and with a widening smile, he felt his stomach and heart twist themselves into one gigantic knot because that Look he was given did something to him every damn time he saw it. It made him feel like the single most important person in the world; like he was worth something. Made him feel wanted and almost revered by the man. Times like this, he couldn't help but wonder what he had ever done to deserve such love and affection from Alfred; he had done nothing note worthy. Nothing of any great import. He had always been himself, plain and simple, which he saw nothing in. And somehow that was what Jones had fallen in love with and it made the Canadian giddy because fuck that noise, he was the luckiest guy in the world. But he still didn't know what he did to deserve it because he was just a silly little no one.

It had been a long time since he had accepted that he was an undeserving nobody, but it was the first time he had ever accepted it with some sort of comfort. Lately, he was perfectly alright with being a nobody as long as there were at least a few people who gave a shit about his existence - people who he knew did give that magical shit about him. _Such a change_, he realized with a thin smile as he adjusted the positioning of the string of lights, _from this time last year, when I didn't give a shit about whether or not I had anyone to talk to._

A change most definitely, but a nice one.

The next time when the ladder was dragged to the side Matthew was actually ready for it, having already latched on to the metal framing and he was grinning dopily while the lawyer hummed the Mission Impossible theme. Sure he even felt his stomach lurch to the side, flip-flopping and making him sort of queasy in the process, but at least it didn't take a few years off of his life unlike the first time it happened.

As he finished up with the icicle lights, Alfred offered to go and make them some hot chocolate. It was a well received plan as Matthew's face split into a delighted grin at the mere mention of the warm beverage and, with a warning to him about being careful, Alfred left the Canadian on the ladder as he went to go and grab a ceramic brewer of sorts from one of his many cupboards and a bag of milk chocolate chips.

Interested as he might have been in just how the hell he planned on making hot chocolate from actual chocolate, Matthew opted to instead finish on hanging the lights. Watching the way the soft lights reflected against the glass was fascinating and, finding it slightly enrapturing, he studied it for a long moment - there was no prompting for him to hurry on with stringing them. He could just stand there and admire the glow for a moment; a moment to relax and take a breather.

Until Alfred chucked a pillow at the back of his head, telling him to stop being such a space cadet and get back to work.

And so he did, because putting up lights was something he wanted to finish within the next few minutes and not at three in the morning.

Once the extensive string of lights were up and he was back on the floor, a cup of hot chocolate was pressed into his hand and Alfred grinned at the bewildered look his partner gave the black cup he held.

"Holy shit," Matthew said, "what the hell is this? This shit is _divine_ what have you _done _to it?"

Kissing him with another laugh, Alfred tugged the Canadian close and manoeuvred them over to the table, where they had left piles of construction paper and tape. "What you have is the hot chocolate concoction Vanessa makes that I have slowly perfected. It's melted chocolate chips, warm milk, melted candy cane, whipped cream, marshmallows and chocolate shavings. It might cause some temporary diabetes, but I'm sure you can live with that."

Matthew, who was already in the process of draining back some of the beverage with a delighted expression and whipped cream smeared all over his nose, nodded his approval and flopped down on the floor as Alfred sat on the sofa across from him.

As the Canadian (begrudgingly) parted from his hot chocolate to accept a pair of scissors, Alfred gave him an odd look. "Why don't you sit next to me? I'm not _that _fat, if that's what you're insinuating."

"The floor is just as comfortable as the sofa," Matthew replied as he started in on slicing the construction paper into strips, choosing not to tread the waters of Alfred and the comment he made about his weight that tended to fluctuate more than the stock market. "Trust me; I've slept on plenty of floors and concrete surfaces to know what's comfortable and what's not."

Alfred stared at him for a long moment. "Really," he said in a flat voice. "You're going to sit on a cold, hardwood floor instead of a nice, squishy sofa where we can shamelessly share body heat and engage in a children's skill-level craft-making session?"

"Your intelligence and perceptiveness astounds me, darling."

"I live to amaze and bewilder, as do you, apparently."

"It's one of the many things that makes us so compatible."

"That and the fact that my dick is fabulous and you seem to love it."

"I'm going to kick you in the _balls_."

"I'd like to see you try that from where you're sat- _don't you dare try it, Matthew, that was __**sarcasm.**_"

Matthew smirked as he straightened back up, tossing his hair over his shoulder - damn he needed to get a cut; it was starting to take on its own life form - and didn't move from his spot on the floor, cutting the coloured paper into perfect strips. Glancing up from his work to glance over to the slightly mangled pieces Alfred was producing, he smirked a little.

"You're kind of incompetent with a pair of scissors," he said in a polite, conversational tone of voice. "How do you screw up children's crafts?"

"I'm not screwing anything up. It gives the paper character," Alfred mumbled, pursing his lips as he stared at his mess of strips.

"Your hand-eye coordination is _shit_."

"You are the biggest bully I have ever met. I bet you used to beat kids up for their lunch money."

"Definitely. Because I totally wasn't a pseudo-loner who spent 80% of my time alone, and I totally never got beaten up fifteen times in the one month by the same kid who was _two years younger than me_."

"I still think you're a bully. Just because you're an artsy-fartsy little bastard doesn't mean you have to criticize anything I make, especially when the last time I ever made crafts I was in pre-school."

"You poor, art-depraved child," Matthew said sadly, shaking his head to add to the act of pity. But he was still grinning. "Maybe I should try and introduce some creativity to your life, eh?"

"Yeah, whatever, you do that," Alfred mumbled distractedly, tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he looped a strip of pink paper in a circle, grabbing a purple one and linking it through it. "I'm just going to sit here and quietly enjoy my kindergarten-level crafts and hot chocolate while you pretend you're fuckin' Monet over there and by the way, you have a whipped cream stache. Might wanna clean that shit off before it crusts over and stains, Pet."

"Oh, yeah. That could be gross." Swiping his sleeve over his upper lip, Matthew gave a silly smile and attached a piece of the paper he held to the chain Alfred had started. "And how sweet, you think I'm a Monet. That's awfully precious; I always thought myself to be more of a Van Gogh, honestly."

Alfred looked up at him. He had been fighting with the double-sided tape and had his fingers wrapped together, earning an exasperated 'you are actually a fucking child, Al'. "Van Gogh?" he asked as Matthew started to work on prying apart his fingers. "Isn't that the batshit artist guy who sliced off his ear?"

"Uh-huh, that's the one," Matthew mumbled, words followed by a vile curse as he struggled with the tape-covered fingers.

"I can see the resemblance now that I think about it," Alfred said with a grin. "Kind of frightening, now that I think about it."

Williams looked up at him and narrowed his eyes. "Jerkface."

The lawyer leaned across the table and kissed him on the mouth, twining their fingers together and causing them to stick together. Matthew laughed, cheeks reddening and he didn't even bother to try and pry their sticky hands apart. "Love you, too," Al said quietly. "Now, instead of acting like little kids, let's make this paper chain like the civilized adults we are-" Matthew snorted "-and we can put it over the tree, turn on the lights and put some of the ornaments we bought on it. Then we can stick up some of those little dollar store decorations we bought on the cupboards in the kitchen and-"

"Where do you want to put that Old World Santa statue we got?" Matthew interrupted, stringing together another slew of paper strips.

Looking around the apartment, he gave a thoughtful-sounding hum. "Why don't we put it out by the coat closet?" he offered. "Like some sort greeter before you come into the actual part of the house?"

"I like that idea," Matthew said, studying the space the lawyer had gestured to. "We can put him there. And maybe we can get all sorts of cotton fluff and we can, like, make some sort of little … hill of fake snow for him to stand on!"

"That is so cheesy and absolutely perfect," declared Alfred. "Did we buy any cotton snow?"

Matthew looked over to the mess of bags they had dumped by the kitchen table and scanned them. "I'm not sure," he said, squinting a little to try and focus on the bags. He cursed to himself; did he actually need to get his eyes checked again? This was madness. Then again, maybe he'd be able to harass Alfred into buying him a nice pair of designer frames or-

_No,_ he scolded, biting down on the inside of his cheek as he accepted a piece of mangled blue paper from Alfred and looped it in around a link on their growing chain. _That's not a very nice thing to do, Matthew. You are damn well capable of buying your own glasses now. _

Humming quietly, he picked up his mug of hot chocolate and draind back some of it, this time actually remembering to wipe away the remaining stain of whipped cream and marshmallows. The chain, even with Alfred's managled pieces of paper, was beginning to resemble something half decent and worth putting on a tree and it brought a smile to the Canadian's face; even though they weren't say much other than the sporadic conversations that seemed to pop up every now and them, this sort of bonding was fantastic.

Sure their usual ideas of bonding were wonderful and worked perfectly for them, but something about this was absolutely fantastic in its simplicity. Even Alfred seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself; he had been smiling the entire time, and it seemed like nothing would wipe the smile from his face.

(Well, unless he made another swipe for his groin under the table again, but that was uncalled for.)

(Even if the reaction the first time around _had_ been absolutely brilliant.)

By the time they finished paper chain - which went on for at least four or five feet, and had taken over half of a book of construction paper to complete - they had already drained back two mugs of hot chocolate each, and it had been well over an hour and a half, which included them somehow managing to drape the lengthy chain over the tree.

As they let the branches settle a little longer, they tackled the rest of the condo, draping lights helter-skelter throughout the place. Silly little plastic cut-outs of elves and reindeer and Santas found homes on various surfaces; garland was draped around every possible entrance and the two went as far as going out and decorating the main hallway that led from the elevator to the apartment.

"No one to bitch about it," Alfred had told him, citing the best advantage of being the sole occupant on the floor as they strung lights around the low-slung ceiling. "And I wouldn't advise anyone to come up here and say a goddamn thing about it because I will stuff a fucking snowman up their ass."

A disturbing threat that held a little too much promise; Matthew thought it wise to simply nod and smile while he contemplated his boyfriend's sanity - something he rarely had to do given the fact that, surprisingly enough, Alfred was probably the sanest person in his life - and just how much validity that too-promising of a threat held.

Oblivious to his partner's plight, Alfred just sang Christmas tunes beneath his breath in that sweetly unknowing way of his.

Returning inside once they had the small hall decorated to their standards, they found that parts of the chain had fallen off the tree, earning groans and curses from the two men.

Twist-ties, they decided, would be what either made or broke their Christmas tree.

And Alfred admitted to having a slightly unholy amount of twist-ties at his disposal, which finally turned into a good thing. Previously, they had made up part of one of his more exotic collections. Now they were finally destined to fulfill their so-called practical use.

Once they had finished with that struggle of epic proportions, they had tackled the actual ornaments much quicker than the paper behemoth that snaked around the artificial pine. Various shapes, sizes and colours, the majority of them were simply paint-coated plastic (the curious little demon of a house cat would have anything and everything glass destroyed). And then there were the few novelty ornaments Alfred had found - various Supermans and Batmans, an Ironman and a Thor or two were dangling from the limbs. Matthew had found a few retro decorations - the Jetsons, Scooby-Doo, Bugs Bunny and Thundercats, as well as some old-school Rudolph and Frosty the Snowman ones they had come across and nearly screamed with excitement over.

Children, really, but that childishness had paid off and what was displayed before them was a proper beauty of a tree in their humble opinion.

Stood in front of the tree, arms wrapped around one another's shoulders, Matthew rested his head upon the lawyer's shoulder and Al had his cheek on top of the Canadian's head.

"I think we win all the awards," Alfred said sleepily; Matthew pulled his phone from his pocket as he caught himself starting to yawn a little as well. It was nearing one in the morning. Impressive; they had been decorating for almost five hours, and almost the entire apartment had been covered in some sort of Christmas decoration. "What do you think?"

"They should name some sort of award after us, especially for this," he agreed, pressing in close and resting his hand on the lawyer's stomach, smiling. There were no other lights on in the apartment, simply the ones hung in the windows and around the place as well as the tree. It made him feel like he was seeing stars. "Do you want to do some baking tomorrow?"

Alfred hummed. "Well, I have a ton of laundry to do tomorrow because I have no clean clothes other than a shirt I may or may not have already worn."

"So while I'm baking sweets, you can do your cleaning! See, everything works out perfectly, shit can get done _and _we can eat our cake at the same time - freshly made."

"I think that is the worst usage of that phrase I have ever heard. Congratulations, you have transcended any and all expectations I have ever had in my life."

"Do me a favour and go fuck yourself in the most awkward and painful way you can possibly come up with involving a goat, a fire hydrant and a block of cheese."

"Why fuck myself when I have you and your occasional voracious sexual appetite and mind-boggling flexibility to take care of?"

Matthew turned an interesting shade of red, wormed out of the laughing attorney's grasp and muttered something about feeling too warm and sticky to go to sleep so he needed a shower or some foolishness like that.

"Don't be so silly," Alfred chuckled, taking the younger man by the hand and pulling him back into a tight embrace, mouth pressed to the side of his head as he inhaled the scent of his hair, giving a silly grin when Matthew tried to swat him away.

"It's true though," he whined. "I _do _feel warm and sticky. And if I feel warm and sticky then I'll be tossing and turning for most of the night, and then more than likely I'll kick you out of the bed in my sleep-"

"Not that you haven't done that before."

"Never _intentionally,_" Matthew admonished with a small smile. "You're too comfortable and make too fantastic of a human blanket to ever intentionally kick out of the bed. But let go, fatass, I wanna go and take a shower."

Hands roaming and refusing to be shoved away, Alfred hummed against the pale neck by his mouth, gently kissing the skin there. "Well, would you object to me joining you in the shower instead?"

Peering over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow, Matthew gave the lawyer a plaintive look. "Oh?"

Finger doodling inane circles on Matt's lower abdomen, warm blue eyes roamed over his face. "Yeah. I think it could be … enjoyable. Y'know, you and me in a small space, all close together and wet and-"

Fingers found their way over his lips. "Hush, don't speak," said Matthew in a deepend, slightly over-dramatic voice. Alfred spluttered, but managed to keep his laughter at bay. "Speaking will only ruin the mood."

Alfred wasn't entirely sure about what the hell the mood he was talking about was, and he wasn't even sure if it would be a good idea to play along, so instead he simply pretended that Matthew hadn't said a single word and instead commented on how beautiful his place looked with all the lights and pretty decorations.

Pretty, pretty lights and pretty, pretty decorations.

Grumbles about him being a gigantic 'cock-block' followed this, including Matthew slapping his hands away with a huff as he trudged towards the bathroom on his own, leaving Alfred behind him to chuckle and admire the work they had done on the place.

(Twenty minutes later and he would be quite passionately retracting that particular statement, much to Alfred's delight. So terribly predictable. But predictability was a wonderful thing, especially when it came with 'perks' like this particular one.)

* * *

Wow. Um, hey guys. Sorry for the almost two month delay on this chapter; I've had a fairly difficult time with the past month or so, and with things being the way they have been, I've found it hard to write, in both the time and motivation department. But the Halloween chapter is up on live journal and has been for a week or two now in case not everyone has seen it, and here's this mess of a chapter! And who knows, there might be another, ahem, ficlet or two posted on lj within the next little while. ;D

Thanks for the immense amount of patience you guys display with my erratic updates - and also, hello to all the new readers who have been popping up lately! You're all adorable and your reviews make me smile a lot. Until next time~


	38. Chapter 38

**CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT.  
**_Part One._

The three of them stood in the room, one just as silent as the next, and one just as nervous as the other.

It was the middle of February and snow fell in fat flakes that were beginning to pile up on the ground, promising that winter was going to be a lot longer than what anyone wanted. It had been snowing since November and, to the dismay of much of the population of the city (with the exception of school children), it didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon. Not unless a sudden heat wave came out of nowhere.

Holding a small glass of brandy and staring out the window, unblinking and chewing on his thumb knuckle, Alfred watched the snow as it fell. Well, he wasn't watching it entirely. The flakes just happened to be in what appeared to be his line of vision; there was a difference between looking and seeing. Frankly it could be raining kittens and prostitutes, and he wouldn't even notice.

Chris, on the other hand, paced the room like an expectant father, nervously smoking a cigarette as the state attorney, Gupta Hassan, looked on with some mild amusement. The wiry Egyptian's eyes were crinkled at the corners as he tried his hardest to not smile.

"Gentlemen, _relax_," he chided. "There's no need for you two to be fretting the way you are. Everything has gone smoothly thus far, and Judge Kirkland has assured you that he will dish out the longest sentence he's permitted to by law. You two should be drinking that brandy as a means of congratulating one another on another successful case and not to be calming your nerves."

"As easy as that sounds, it's not. It really isn't," Alfred said with a sigh, swishing around the dark contents in his glass. The glass was crystal and reflected the light of the room rather oddly.

"Nope. It isn't," Chris babbled. He had set down his glass and was wringing his hands as he walked. "Not the easiest thing to do." He kept muttering to himself, shrugging and shaking his head as he had a kept a steady conversation with himself.

"Chris."

He stopped and looked up and over to Alfred.

"Shut the fuck up and sit down before you wear a trench in the carpet," Alfred said flatly, massaging his forehead as he contemplated downing this drink and pouring himself another. He didn't, but only because he didn't want to be pushing Hassan's hospitality. It was a very delicate thing, that hospitality of the state attorney's. One minute it was there, and the next moment he was snatching the rug out from under your feet and snapping at you for walking inside with your shoes on, _you filthy New York prick._

Not that Alfred had ever had that said to him. Nope, not once.

(In recent memory.)

Surprisingly enough, Chris did as he was told, and without voicing a complaint about it. He picked his glass back up and, with it held tightly in his trembling hands, he nodded slowly. "Okay, yeah, sorry man."

Ruefully shaking his head, Alfred rolled his eyes and sighed. Chris' trepidation over the whole court case fiasco was understandable - this, being his first big case, was what was going to make or break him and determine whether or not he had a career outside of being a small-time lawyer.

As though reading his thoughts, Chris turned to his friend, looking worried. "Al, I don't wanna spend the rest of my life as a divorce lawyer or a real estate lawyer. I don't _wanna. _I've worked way too damn hard."

"Chillax, bro," Alfred said with a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. Even the state attorney laughed a little. "You're gonna do just fine with this, a'ight? Everyone's seen that you're capable of carrying a case, seeing it to the end and doing all of it without turning it into a shit show. You've successfully left out the questions of class, race and identity and all sorts of shit like that, that so many other lawyers try to bring up to score them brownie points and only end up making themselves look like bigoted douches. Which most of 'em are, trust me - when you rub elbows with the biggest collective of assholes in a big city, you figure this out pretty fast. I should know; I was one of those assholes for a little while. But you've shown that you're capable, so chill the fuck out man. Just. _Chill_."

Chris, licking his lips and looking positively bewildered, just nodded slowly and sank back further in the chair as his shoulders sagged a little. His head lolled back as he stared up at the ceiling. Gupta clapped his hands a little, wearing a small smile. He seemed to be impressed. About what, Alfred didn't know. The little man of great influence just smiled and seemed very pleased.

"Gentlemen, I have to say you have both run a very well-put together case," the state attorney said. Fingers laced together and his elbows placed upon the desk, he had his chin resting atop them and was smiling. His deep brown eyes were warm. "You with the proceedings and interrogations, Chris, and you, Alfred, for all the research and effort you've put into making the more intricate aspects of this case work. So I highly doubt that either of you have anything to worry about."

"I'll drink to that," Alfred stated, knocking back the rest of his drink with a grimace. He never was one for brandy; too strong-tasting, even if it was mixed with something.

"You know what? I think I will, too," Chris said, tossing his back as well.

"You could probably use a little bit of liquid courage at this rate," hummed Jones. "The verdict is being read in ten minutes."

Chris blanched. "Pass me the bottle, would you? I need to top myself off."

"Don't you mean your glass?" Gupta asked.

"No, no, I mean myself," Chris mumbled as he stood, setting the empty glass down and raking his hands through his curly black hair. "Having your drink in a glass is for pussies."

Alfred made a meowing sound, only to cower away when Chris shot him a murderous look. "Listen, I'm going to head back downstairs. I want to be down there before Judge Kirkland even gets back from his break and before the jury comes back in from their deliberation. Are you gonna watch?"

"From the wings," Alfred said. "Text me when it gets started."

Turning to the State Attorney and taking a seat, Alfred stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his arms over his chest with a sigh. "This sure is gonna be a long ten minutes, huh, Your Honour?"

"That it is, Jones." Hassan had already started to busy himself with sorting various papers. The man never stopped; he always had to be doing something. Idle hands, he would say, were the Devil's favourite plaything. "However, I must say, I cannot wait for you to return to the courtroom yourself, to start taking cases again."

Alfred looked up from fiddling with his phone; he may or may not have been forming a slight addiction to the Brick Breaker game on it. "O-Oh?"

He nodded slowly, placing the papers back down and smoothing them out - not that there were any visible wrinkles - and he made contemplative noise of sorts. "Yes," he said. Looking up, he tilted his head to the side a little, dark eyes searching the lawyer's face. "Aren't you?"

"Of _course_," spluttered Alfred. "Jesus. It's been over ten months since I've done any real work - I mean, yeah, I've been working on programs and have been visiting schools, talking with students and stuff about violence prevention and the dangers of drug use, I've been talking to different addictions groups and stuff about why it's good for them to be taking the steps they are, and I've been up on my volunteer work and then some, but I mean, I haven't been _working _and I _miss_ it."

"Is that why you've been completing Chris' research for him and helping him contact witnesses for testimonies?"

He nodded. "Guilty as charged," sighed Alfred. "At least it's helping him with showing him the right way to go about gathering primary sources of information. I need work, though; I'm going crazy not doing anything with my time. And I can only harass Matthew so often in the run of a day before that starts to lose its ability to get some giggles."

Chuckles; Gupta smiled a little and tilted his head back. "Ah, before I forget to tell you," he said, suddenly sitting upright in his chair and whipping open one of the drawers in his desk. It was enough to frighten Alfred to the point of jumping. "You and Chris, along with several other attorneys from Texas, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Orelans, and possibly Washington, are going to be attending a conference in Europe, at the end of May."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "What! _Really?_"

The other nodded sagely. At the same moment, the phone in his jacket pocket vibrated - it was either Chris or Matthew. "Yes. It is some sort of skills-improvement conference."

"A big ol' lawyer pow-wow, huh?" Alfred asked with a light laugh. "Sounds great, Your Honour. Where's it happening to?"

"In Paris, for the first week, and then in Berlin for the second week," said Gupta as he placed a set of reading glasses on the bridge of his nose.

The end of-

Alfred sank back against his seat, swallowing thickly and nodding. "So, uh, what are the dates, exactly?"

Gupta glanced up over the rims of his glasses and peered at him for a brief moment. The look in his eyes was indiscernible. Then he smiled a little. "It runs between May 21st and June 5th, so it's really fifteen days, but I think June 5th is the day you all leave Berlin. If I remember correctly, doesn't that coincide with your return to New York last year?"

He nodded. "Yeah, it does," he said glumly. "Is attendance mandatory?"

"Yes, it is, and sadly, you're not permitted to bring anyone along; you're going to be kept in seminars and meetings for up to thirteen hours a day, and with only four properly free evenings to go and explore the cities and do some shopping, or things of the like," sighed the attorney. "Otherwise, I would quite gladly tell you to bring along whoever you wanted; hotel rooms aren't being shared with anyone. You'll have your own suite and everything."

"What if I paid for him to come along with me?" Alfred asked quietly. "Could I do that?"

"I wish I could tell you yes, because it would make sense to be able to do that, but the event coordinators won't even allow that to be done, as it's been tried in the past," he said. "I really am sorry, Alfred. You know I'd let you take him with you if it was possible, if there were any strings I can pull. But this is well above my level of influence."

"Hey, it's totally fine. Matthew'll just hate me for the first two weeks when he finds out, but then he'll be over it," Alfred said with a weak chuckle, smile wan. That would've been an incredible opportunity - the time to take Matthew to Berlin and Paris, of all the places in the world - when they would be together for a year.

Alfred felt his stomach clench in a pleasant way and he tried to bite down on the stupid smile he was fighting back. In four months, they'd be together for a year. A whole goddamn year.

Kind of freaky, kind of fantastic all at the same time.

Well, if they had managed to get through the first few months of knowing each other, let alone being in a relationship, without Matthew setting Alfred's socks on fire (while he was wearing them), then there was no surprise, really.

"How about this," Gupta said suddenly. The same time he spoke there was another vibrating in his pocket, followed by a whole string of vibrations. Someone was goddamn excited about something or other. Then he remembered - the verdict was going to be given within any given moment. Chris was probably in the process of having a hernia. "When you get back, I'll arrange it so that you can take a month's holidays starting as of June … 9th, let's say, to give you a day or so to straighten things up and get de-lagged. It sort of makes up for the fact that you're going to be missing your one-year anniversary. Which is very important of course. Take the boy somewhere nice. Leave New York for the whole month."

"Maybe I'll take him to Alberta," Alfred said, half to himself and half to the other man. "Or somewhere down South. Like New Orleans. Fuck, I don't know. But I got four months to come up with and surprise him with it, so I guess that could work out well."

The two of them stood, Alfred straightening his suit jacket while Gupta draped his over his shoulder. Opening the door for the older man, Gupta gave him a look of approval, smile half-cocked. "I must say, you've become such a mild, well-mannered man, Alfred," he commented, causing the younger lawyer to splutter with embarrassment. "Matthew must have beaten them into you."

Alfred snorted, shutting the door behind him and almost having to jog to catch up to the smaller man's quick pace. "You could say that."

"It's true though," said Gupta, almost protesting. "You were such an asshole. Although, it might've been the cocaine that turned you into such an asshole…"

"You know something? You're not the first person to have suggested that," Alfred said in a flat voice. He wasn't too impressed. The last goddamn person he wanted to hear that from was his boss. "Which is fuckin' depressing as shit."

He was given a good, hard pat on the back. "Oh, do lighten up, buttercup," scoffed the lawyer as they ascended to the atrium. "At least not everyone knows that's the reasoning. Most people assume you were an asshole for the sake of being an asshole."

"If you're trying to make me feel better, then stop. Because you suck at it."

Gupta laughed and forced him to sit down in a cushiony arm chair, hand on his shoulder. "Tell me, Jones, how many people actually knew?"

"Well, besides you, Chris, Matthew, Arthur and my former secretary Audrey knew about it. No one else did, as far as I know," Alfred said.

"Such a shame that Audrey retired," sighed Hassan. "She was such a … pleasant woman."

"You say that as though you're lying through your teeth," commented Alfred with a wry smirk. "I thought she was awesome; very low bullshit-tolerance levels, that was for sure. I think that's why we got along so well, y'know?"

"I just think she didn't like anyone, really," Gupta said with a shrug as he gingerly lowered himself down into a chair. The man was a lot older than what he looked; his youthful appearance was only betrayed by the lines at the corners of his eyes and the fact that his bones positively creaked when he moved. He was like a rickety old mansion, groaning and whining its protests as it settled on a crumbly foundation. He just masked it well with his exuberant personality and his go-to personality. "I know for a fact that she despised me. I don't know why; I never gave her much of a reason to."

"Didn't you tell her that her curtains didn't match the other colour schemes of her little office downstairs?" Alfred asked. "And didn't you say they were a little too ratty-looking to be used in such a professional setting?"

He seemed to think this over, thoughtfully rubbing his chin as he considered the possibility. "There's a very good chance I did," he said finally. Neither of them were paying much attention as the members of the jury strolled into the courtroom, prepared to give their verdict. "Why? Would that have something to do with it?"

Alfred could have smacked the other man. And he would have, too, if it weren't for the fact that he was probably one of the most important people around within a two- or three-mile radius (this was New York, after all. Important people tended to spawn up out of nowhere, crawling out of the sewers with the rats. These thoughts were sounding frightfully Matthew-like. The little anarcho-socialist was beginning to get to him. Shit on a goddamn stick.). "All due respect, Your Honour, but that was fuckin' dumb to do, so it's not much of a surprise she hated you for that one reason. As long as you didn't comment on the curtains and her choice of interior decoration, you'd get along just swell with her. Our relationship is a prime example of that hypothesis."

"That's just foolish," huffed the other, arms folded across his chest. "That is not a valid reason to dislike someone."

"Well, when you insult something the foster kids she takes care of made for her, then there's a good chance that she might think it's a fantastic reason," Alfred pointed out smoothly. "People are a lot more than just silly quirks and nuances and things to pick and poke at; they're emotions, of all the goddamn things in the world. And emotions are fragile, tricky things that if you don't grasp 'em within the first few minutes of them surfacing, chances are you're gonna be either pissed all over or you'll have someone damn good and disappointed in you for not reading the atmosphere, whether you were aware of it or not. People are way too complex and - and just … _wired_ to immediately pass judgement on someone they don't know much about - if anything at all - without a sound back-up knowledge of as to why they react to things the way they do, whether it's with abhorrence or nonchalance or just plain happiness or whatever. But you can't be so quick to judge, Your Honour. You really can't be, even if it's what we all do. Sometimes you just gotta tell that primal instinct to judge and form baseless opinions to fuck off so that you can try and figure out _why _this person reacted the way they did in the first place. Judging others is what's ruinin' society, and it doesn't matter who it stems from. It all ends up with the same sort of dilemma - creating barriers that prevent you from actually getting to know someone else."

Gupta stared at Alfred, expression clouding over briefly before he nodded and smiled - it was a different smile, and Jones felt himself warm all over, right from the tips of his toes to deep in his bones and belly and right up to the roots of his hair.

"You fascinate me, Alfred," he said quietly, hand propping his head up as he smiled at the younger lawyer. "In the best way possible, of course. I didn't know you were capable of such deep thoughts."

"Mariana's Trench deep, Your Honour. Maybe even deeper. Who knows, I might be down as far as Dante's … last circle of Hell. I don't know the number, but I know he has a few of 'em. Kind of like the original social networking, right?"

Gupta shook his head and chuckled. "That must be all those philosophy classes you took in university coming back to haunt you, am I correct?"

"More than likely," said the lawyer with a sigh. "It's kind of like bad Chinese food: It still comes back for the occasional visit even if you ate it a week ago."

If he were about to say anything, the words died on his tongue as the sound of the gavel pierced the silence that had gone entirely unnoticed by the two men. They had managed to miss the verdict being read but, from the looks of it, it had turned out to be in their favour. Below them the jury gathered their things as the members made to leave, individuals representing various medias were leaving the courtroom and congregating in the hall. Pavel was being lead from the room, cuffs around both of his wrists and his ankles. His lawyer was visibly smarting; Pavel seemed indifferent, almost as though he were at peace with the verdict. In fact it looked like he were smiling a little, although that might have been a trick of the light.

Chris, who was staring up at the ceiling (or maybe he was looking up to where they were; it was hard to tell) looked properly smug. Arthur stood beside him, watching the man being lead from the court and into the media frenzy. The look on his face was unreadable but Alfred knew well enough that he shared the same smug feeling as his colleague.

Things had _definitely _turned out in their favour.

Alfred sank back into his seat with relief, exhaling in a heavy whoosh of breath and running his hand down over his face, letting it fall to his lap while a stupid smile formed on his face. Gupta took in the reaction and gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"See?" he said, sounding almost as smug as Chris looked. "I told you there was nothing to worry about; your brother wouldn't be letting that man leave that room unless he has at least ten years of prison time under his belt to serve before he had a bail option."

"I wonder if he's gonna file for an appeal," murmured Jones, hand masking his mouth as he stared across the small room. He had barely heard the other speak. "That could be bad."

"Any appeal he makes is going to be shut down the moment he tries for it," he said. "That's a guarantee. I'll see to it myself."

"R-Really?"

A singular nod. "The man is a genuine threat to public safety and, to another small extent, both your personal safety, evidently your partner's safety, and your career at large. Wouldn't you feel a little bit better if you knew he was behind bars with no chance for an appeal to go through successfully?"

He had a point. A really damn good one, at that.

"Honestly, I think if anyone files for an appeal, it'll be the lawyer representing him," Gupta continued. "The accused seems to have no interest in going against whatever verdict he's given."

"I swear, if they let him out on good behaviour, I'll kill the bastard and serve the rest of his sentence," Alfred growled.

"Woah, easy there tiger." The two men seated in the room looked up and over to the doorway, where Arthur and Chris stood. Arthur still wore his judge's cape and cravat and he chuckled a little at Chris' words. "Ain't no one going around and killing anyone anytime soon. Did you hear what the verdict was? The charges held against him?"

Gupta and Alfred glanced to one another before the younger man shrugged sheepishly. "Refresh me?"

"More like enlighten you, twit," Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes. He shut the door and locked it behind them as the two newcomers took a seat across from the two men already occupying the room. "Guilty on all charges of assault, and all murder charges except for one - the one he kept adamantly denying. The jury acquitted him on the grounds that he was so damn insistent and how he had been more or less so compliant for the whole trial, and that the evidence piled against him was both insufficient and irrelevant in some places. All trafficking charges were kept, as were two or three of the eight fraud and blackmail charges. Again, insufficient evidence. The theft charges were dropped for the same reasons, as were the money laundering charges. I was even doubting of those myself."

"Jesus," Alfred said quietly, running his hand down over his face. Gupta seemed impressed.

"How many years?" asked the state attorney.

Arthur gestured to Chris, as if to say he could do the honours of telling them. "Twenty," DePaulo said. He was grinning from ear to ear and he looked giddy. "And it'll be seven years before he can go for his first real bail hearing, unless he gets an earlier one based on good behaviour."

"Congratulations, Chris," Gupta said. "You've done fantastic. I think you have a very good shot at earning a spot in the Brooklyn office, especially after this."

"Don't tell him that," Alfred scolded lightly, sending his friend a devious smirk. "You might make the poor bastard wet his pants, and he's not wearing his big-boy diapers right now."

"_You_. I'm going to hurt you one of these days," Chris promised. "And I'm going to enjoy every minute of it."

"Mm, sounds kinky. Don't know if I like it, though," Alfred said in a flat voice. "I'll get back to you later on that proposition."

"Ah, speaking of propositions, you got any plans for tonight?" Chris asked, straightening as the other two made to leave the room. Arthur patted his brother on the shoulder, giving him a small smile and telling him he'd give him a call later on the week.

Alfred gave Chris a wary look. "You're … propositioning me?" he asked. "I thought you had Vanessa for that…_stuff._"

"That came out so wrong," Chris groaned. "I mean, like, do you and Matthew have any plans this evening? Vanessa and I were considering going out to dinner, and she was thinking of asking you two to come along, too."

"You mean like a d-double date?" Alfred had a hard time getting those two words out, and he must've been a little blue in the face when he choked them out because Chris started to look worried. "That … could be good."

"Yeah, we're going to dinner and maybe we could all go to a movie afterwards, or like, hang out at our place or whatever. What do you think?"

Giving it a moment's thought, the lawyer nodded slowly, before grinning and clapping the other on the back. "I think it's a fantastic idea," he said. "Where are we going out to?"

"I'm thinking of taking her to Colicchio and Sons," he said, "there on Tenth. You know the place?"

"Oh, you mean the old Craft restaurant?" Alfred asked, standing when the other did. "Do you know if the chefs working there now are the same ones from before they changed the name or ownership or whatever?"

Chris nodded briefly. "I think they kept a lot of the same staff. Apparently they got some nicer digs there now, and I know that Matthew doesn't work there, so he probably wouldn't find it awkward or anything. Where does he work, anyway?"

"Beats me," Alfred said. They were going to head back to his office before leaving so he could grab a few of his text books. "I think he works at someplace called The Russian Tea Room? Either way, he has to wear some seriously fancy getup for going to work. And he _hates _it."

"The job or the fancy getup?"

Alfred hummed. "Well, he's not a big fan of waiting tables, that's for sure. But it's the formal wear. I remember we went to an art gallery back in September or something and I pretty much had to force him into a suit. And even then it wasn't much of a suit - just a fancy shirt, black jeans and dress shoes. But this job, he has to wear gloves, a white shirt, a black bowtie and his clothing has to be steamed and pressed. He doesn't complain though, especially given the fact that last night he came home with over two hundred bucks worth of tips. He had some party of like ten people or something."

Giving a low whistle, he seemed impressed. "He must be a good waiter then," he said. "I know I waited tables at a Pizza Hut for a year, and I never made no big tips like that. Then again, it was a Pizza Hut, after all…"

"It's cause he has a good memory, and no matter how much he says he hates people, he can handle them wonderfully," said Alfred as they descended a flight of stone steps. Their steps echoed loudly, their voices even louder and the two men cringed at the sudden explosion of sound. "He can be such a two-faced little shit."

Chris laughed. "Yeah, that sounds like him, all right." stopping at the door Alfred was about to go through, he paused and then looked at his watch. "Listen, you go on ahead and get whatever it is you need; I'm going on ahead and picking up Vanessa from work, and then I'll give you a call around six or whatever, okay? That gives us about two hours to get ready."

Hand on the door, Alfred nodded. They parted, leaving him to head to his office alone, and to leave him alone with his thoughts, as the clichéd saying goes.

So, Pavel was going to jail, and would be there for quite some time before he had a shot at bail.

_Funny_, he thought, _the way these things work out some times_.

Alfred felt his body sag a little as he leant back against the closed door. He didn't know if it was with relief, or some other undetected emotion lurking beneath the surface. Surprise was there, definitely; he hadn't expected him to get picked up on so many of the charges. The assault ones and the trafficking ones, yes. Those were glaringly obvious and the several victim testimonies were enough to convict him. But the murders he was apparently to blame for, the evidence didn't seem to add up in the three instances and Alfred had a funny feeling about it. But he strangled the life out of those funny, gut-churning feelings and stuffed them in the back of the closet to await burial with the remaining, choked-out funny emotions from times before. Pavel admitted to two of three murders, so that was enough for him.

Sliding down along the door and sitting on the carpet, Alfred pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his suit jacket (Matthew had 'accidentally' sat on them, just like he had 'accidentally' thrown out the last full pack he had bought. Accident his ass).

For some reason, it just didn't add up, he decided as he placed a cigarette between his lips, idly chewing on the end of it as he contemplated lighting it. He didn't. Instead, he chewed on the end some more until it was properly mangled and then stuff it back in the package with a sigh. He'd smoke it later, when he was somewhere he wouldn't get in shit for it.

Arms up over his head, ignoring the vibrating phone in his pocket, Alfred shut his eyes. All that mattered was that Pavel was going to jail, that everything had gone without a hitch, and that there would be, more than likely, no appeal. And he still had a job and an untarnished reputation; one more skeleton to drag out of the closet and place in an unmarked grave.

Okay, so he did know what it was he was feeling. It was relief, whether or not he had been charged based on evidence that was shaky at the best. No more worrying over anyone's safety, whether it was his own or Matthew's.

Standing after some time of sitting there and brooding over the conviction, no matter how many times he returned to the same conclusion, Alfred decided that it would be best if he just stuffed the reading he needed into his laptop bag to be done with it. Going over all the trial's details from the past few months would do him no good; it would only give him a migraine.

Some twenty minutes later saw him back to Matthew's little apartment, where the younger man had a pile of textbooks and droves upon droves of notes and cue cards spread helter-skelter across his dining room table.

It was like an office supplies depot had exploded.

Quietly entering the apartment and setting his bag down on the floor by the door to Matthew's bedroom, he leaned against the wall, watching as his partner tried to make heads or tails of his own writing (chicken scratch at best) with some amusement. His nose was practically pressed up against one as he squinted at it. A look of frustration bloomed on his face for a brief moment before fading away as he sat back up, scribbled something down on a sheet of loose leaf and tossed the card into a blue paper recycling bin on the other side of his chair.

Watching Matthew work like this was something that, over the past month or so, Alfred had found to be a fascinating thing. One, he had never seen him slave over anything like this before. Up until now, the only time he had ever seen him put any real work into anything was when he painted, and that was a pure labour of love. So much thought and effort and consideration went into each piece he created, and paired with his skill and technique (something, he said, still needed a lot of work. Alfred just said he was being modest), it was a powerful thing. Art was his life, above anything and everything else, just the same way the law was for Alfred. It was an understanding they both had, and neither of them let the other get in the way of that passion.

This note-taking, however, was a labour of the mildly begrudging, the greatly displeased, and the sorely under slept.

"It's rude to lurk in doorways, Mr. Jones," Matthew said without looking up from his mess of notebooks and cue cards and loose papers. His voice was flat, lacking any possibility of being amused. Alfred jumped at the unexpected address.

"I'll be as rude as I damn well want," he snorted as he approached the younger man. Resting behind him, one arm keeping his weight stationary as he peered over his shoulder, he studied the mess of papers. Business notes. There were a few graded tests and papers there. The majority of them were good, but there was a few he had completely tanked.

He picked one up, and Matthew made a grab for it, cheeks reddening but Alfred pulled up and away faster than he could reach it. "A 37%?" he demanded, astounded. Matthew hung his head, looking away and viciously stuffing some papers into a binder. "What happened man?"

"I don't even remember," he muttered. "It was some paper for my macroeconomics class and I nuked it. Actually, I'm pretty much failing the class, or just about. I have maybe a really, really low sixty in it. Doing Business is a bad idea. I should've just stayed with art as my major and did some sort of artsy-fartsy minor. Like history, or sociology, or something."

Alfred grimaced. "I could help you with it a little, or Jeff could probably help you; he did Business in Harvard and did good with it. I mean, he did land a well-paying job within a few months after graduating. He'd help you if you just asked him."

Matthew sat in the chair, arms stubbornly folded over his chest, saying nothing. He was glaring at the mess in front of him. Alfred sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Listen, you want to do well in your classes, right?"

Begrudgingly, after a moment, he nodded and slumped a little in his chair. Smiling thinly, Alfred pressed a kiss to the back of his head, hands resting on his shoulders. "Then give Jeff a text or a call or something, and ask him to help you," he murmured. "Jeff won't mind, trust me. I don't wanna see you flunk out, Mattie. You've been waiting too long to go back to school for any of this bullshit."

Looking up at him, Matthew sighed. "Yeah, I've sunk too much into this and it's only my first semester." He ran his hands through his hair and shut his eyes, face upturned. He was frowning. Alfred took his face in his hands and pressed a short kiss to his mouth.

"C'mon, Pet, don't be so down on yourself," he said softly. "You're too young to have frown lines just yet. Anyway, you're just going to depress yourself and that's the goddamn last thing I want happening. Now cheer up, we're going out tonight."

Opening his eyes, Matthew stared blandly at the lawyer. "Really?" He almost sounded disappointed.

"Don't sound too excited," Alfred said in a flat voice. "I don't want you exploding or anything."

Laughter, and Alfred felt a small sense of relief at seeing his partner's smile; it had been too rare of an occurrence the past few weeks, and he had begun to miss it. Desperately. Missed its warm, but sarcastic edge. Missed the peculiarity of its curve that was reserved solely for him. It had returned, even if only for a brief moment. Alfred gave him another warm kiss; his way of thanking him.

"But, really?" Matt asked, straightening up and turning to face the lawyer. "Where are we going?"

"Out to dinner with Chris and Vanessa," said Alfred. "Then we're going back to their place to probably watch some movies and have a few drinks or whatever."

The other nodded before pushing away from the table. "I like the sound of that," Matthew said, a small, reserved smile returning to his face. "Where are we going out to?"

"Collichio and Sons," the lawyer said. He stepped back as Matthew stood, wrapping an arm around his waist and tugging him close. Matt smiled lazily and placed his chin on his shoulder. "And the dress code is semi-formal, so I hope you're alright with that."

A groan left the Canadian, as did a curse or two, but he hung his head and nodded at the same time. "Yeah, yeah, I can deal with it," he grumbled, shoving his book bag out of the way and under the kitchen table. As he moved around, gradually making his way to his bedroom, Alfred made it a point to keep himself plastered to the other's back, chin resting on his shoulder.

Being latched on the way he was made for awkward walking, but that was what made it all the more fun. He kind of got a cheap kick out of waddling behind the Canadian and trying to find a proper way (see: safe and wouldn't land him either on his ass or with an elbow in the throat) to move behind him, all while annoying the ever-loving shit out of the poor guy.

Jones was decidedly good at annoying Matthew.

(And even though he knew he was annoying the younger man into another dimension, that didn't stop the giddy, silly smile that was forming on his face and that was how Alfred knew everything was okay. That Matthew was perfectly fine, even if things were beginning to get him down.)

(Even though it was hard for him to actually articulate it, Alfred was kind of proud, in a way. Proud of how far Matthew had come, emotionally, in the past year he had known him. He seemed to bounce back from depression within a matter of days now, without any major amount of medication, instead of the weeks or months that involved heavy pill-ingestion and copious amounts of sleep and isolation he put himself through.)

"Matthew, I think you just stuck your elbow in my spleen..."

"It's _your_ spleen's fault for getting in the way of _my_ elbow. So shut it."

(Now, he just sort of sulked around, popped one of his pills a few hours earlier than usual and slept it off for a few hours. It'd be a day or three before he'd come around, but he would. He always did these days. He'd talk about it without being prompted instead of holing up - '_It's not healthy_,' he had whispered to the older man one night, unusually quiet and sombre after they had watched a few movies together. '_It's not healthy and I-I guess I shouldn't be doing it to myself. Not anymore. Not when I know better; not when I have you._')

(When he said that, Alfred didn't reply and that was what the Canadian had wanted because he smiled a smile that told Alfred everything - a small, soft little smile that Alfred would walk over burning coals to see, even for just a second, because nothing in his life had ever been more valuable to him. Nothing material or immaterial. It was incredible, the way it made him feel.)

"Ow, Jesus! Matthew, you're a fucking bull in a china shop, and the goddamn china shop happens to be my insides!"

"Well it's your own problem for not having a 'No Bulls Are Allowed' sign plastered to your back or something."

(Yeah, he was goddamn good and proud of Matthew, and maybe - just maybe - one of these days he would tell him.)

Throwing his weight so that he dragged Matthew along with him, Alfred managed to land them on the bed, squishing the artist beneath him. Clambering atop him, he pinned him to the mattress with a wicked grin.

Matthew shook his head and squirmed, trying to dislodge the grip that he was in. "I can't get changed if you're leeching onto me, Al," he scolded. He could barely keep a straight face as he spoke.

"Well, if it persists and becomes a problem, I'll take your clothes off _for_ you," Alfred purred.

"Then get started. Sitting on me and talking about it isn't getting me naked any faster," he said in a flat voice. "When are we leaving?"

Pulling back and giving an astonished look about him as the Canadian spoke, Alfred sat back on his hips as he seemed positively bewildered, stammering a bit before he could actually speak like a normal person. "U-Uh, well…" he cleared his throat when Matthew gave him an expectant look of sorts. Floundering for a moment, he hauled the Canadian's shirt off and up over his head before chucking it to the floor, he grinned sheepishly. "Chris is gonna be here in about a half hour for us, how does that sound?"

"Sounds good," Matthew agreed. "And you're slacking, Princess. You've had me naked quicker than this. You must be losing your touch or something."

Alfred turned red and ducked his head.

"Oh, trust me," he murmured, hand sliding down over his side - he smirked when Matthew sucked in a sharp breath - and his gaze roaming along his chest and up to his face. "I'm far from being out of practice, and if it weren't for the fact that Chris'll be here soon, I'd say let me prove it to you."

"W-We have half an hour, right?" Matthew asked.

Alfred chuckled lowly and shook his head. "Mm, yeah, but it'll take longer than half an hour for me to prove it to you."

"I hate you so much. Why would you even tease me like that? Like, what the fuck is wrong with you?" he demanded. "There are so many things wrong with you, that's what. You're a sadist. A big, fat sadist with love handles."

Jaw dropping, Alfred got up and threw a pillow at his face before throwing the clothing that had made its way to the floor back on top of him. "Take that back, you bitch!" he yelled. "I do not have love handles! I have a chiselled body that statue-makers would've used as a fantastic reference of pure, unadulterated beauty!"

"Love handles, love handles, Alfred Jones has love handles!" Matthew sang out, throwing the things on top of him back at the lawyer. He sat up and, to add insult to injury, grabbed at the man's hips and took, from either side of his body, a measure of the extra bit of fat that was sitting there. "See? Love handles. They've returned with a vengeance, Princess. I think they might be here to stay. You're gonna be thirty in, like, two or three years, so it's gonna be hard to sweat 'em off."

Matthew fell silent when he realized Alfred looked as though he were on the verge of tears, and he bit his lower lip. His eyes were watery and he looked away, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

Oh, my God.

He almost made his boyfriend cry.

_I am a horrible human being oh my fuck I don't deserve to live someone just take me now and throw me overboard or something._

"Shit, Al, don't do that," said the Canadian weakly as he tried to stifle his laughter. "Just because you have love handles - and they're not even that noticeable or big, honestly - it doesn't mean it's a bad thing."

"But it means I'm _fat,_" Alfred replied unhappily, voice cracking when he spoke. The sound almost made Matthew tear up. "And that's a bad thing. Nobody likes a fat lawyer. The next thing I know, I'll be bald and then I'll have a huge Santa Clause belly and I'll be living in the worst trailer park in America 'cos I'll be after squandering away my money on toupees and weight loss programs and then subsequently beer and hamburgers to drown my sorrows and-"

A groan left Matthew. What he had done? What sort of monster had he created? It might've very well been Judgement Day for all he knew. "No, no, Al, that's not gonna happen," said Matthew, pinching a cheek - '_See_," Alfred whined, '_I even have cheek fat for you to pinch_!' - and then biting back an exasperated growl. "You keep yourself in exceptional shape for that to happen. You have probably the nicest, most-toned stomach I've seen a guy sporting in a long time."

Sniffles. "You sure?" he asked. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better?"

No, it was more like he was saying it to make himself feel less guilty. Matthew tweaked his nose. "No, I'm not just saying it to make you feel better," he murmured in a way that he hoped sounded reassuring. "I wouldn't lie to you. Your body is fantastic just the way it is, and so are you. Especially you. Don't change. Ever. No matter what anyone says - I'll be pissed if you do."

Patting him on the cheek and giving the unhappy, not-quite-convinced lawyer and soft kiss on the other cheek, Matthew bumped their hips together before heading over to his closet.

"I guess I don't mind having to dress up too much," he said with a sigh as he faced the clothing hung up in the small space. "I mean, it's not too often we go anywhere overly formal, so it's kind of nice for a change, right?"

Standing the way he was, back to his boyfriend, he completely missed the wicked smile the older man wore. A very conceited, wicked smile.

Perfect the way he was? Fantastic body? Never change?

The smile grew, turning into a Grinch-like smirk of pure, unadulterated evilness.

Matthew was never going to live this down, and simply because Alfred wasn't going to _let_ him live it down.

_Ever._

And even when they arrived at the restaurant, Alfred was still gloating about it. On the inside. Really, really deep down on the inside. Matthew knew nothing of this inner self-congratulatory monologue that consisted of various things that ranged from: '_You have that boy whipped, Jones, fuckin' whipped you have tamed the untameable_' to '_damn fuckin' straight you have a bitchin' body. You don't go to the gym two or three times a week and work out at home for no reason_'.

Matthew had his suspicions given the fog of smugness that seemed to be emanating from him each time he opened his mouth to say something, or even each time he exhaled.

Back to polluting the environment with his banality. Matthew thought he had weaned Alfred out of that bad habit of his, but apparently he still needed a bit of potty training. It was hard to refrain from smacking the back of his head, but given that they were in a high-end restaurant, he willed himself to behave.

At least _one _of them needed to set a proper example as to how to behave while in the public eye. It was just really sad that it was going to be him who did so.

The group had already placed their orders and sat in silence as the waiter brought them two bottles of wine and began to fill their glasses before once more slipping discreetly away.

"It must be nice to be the one being served for a change, huh?" asked Vanessa with a smile directed towards Matthew.

Nodding as he studied the glass of wine before him, Matthew ran his finger along the rim before settling back, arms folded across his chest. "It definitely is." He smirked a little. "I kind of want to be one of those customers from hell who isn't satisfied with anything they're given, but Karma likes to use me as it's punching bag, which means the next time I work, I'll get all the customers from hell on the same night."

Tuning the three out as they started discussing something - a couple had walked past the table, catching the trio's combined attention - that had happened when they had all been in university, apparently involving the couple who had walked by. Matthew watched the two as they continued to wind their way around table. He hoped he wasn't gawking, but more than likely he was.

Beneath the surface of the table, a warm hand enveloped his and Matthew started, gaze being torn from the normal-seeming couple who were apparently inept at following the directions of a waiter (who had pointed to the direction of a very noticeably vacant table in amongst of sea of taken ones and was now guiding them towards said vacant table with a perceptible annoyance. They had somehow managed to end up on the completely wrong side of the restaurant).

Looking down, he saw Alfred's hand holding his and when he looked back up and over to Alfred, there was no look on his face betraying what it was he was doing. Well, there seemed to be a bit of a twitch in the corner of his mouth and his cheeks had reddened a bit. Either he was coming down with something or he was even worse than he had initially assumed when it came to subtlety. However, glancing discreetly to the couple across from them, his partner's attempt at tact had gone completely awry as they exchanged smiles with one another before they continued to prattle on.

Matthew said nothing; he just sat back and laced his fingers through the lawyer's, content to settle in and just soak in everything. And he was pleased that Alfred didn't try to coerce him into taking part in the conversation, either; that he didn't seem to mind the younger man's idle, almost listless, behaviour. Not that Matthew _felt _listless or anything, just sort of sleepy and not in the mood to talk.

Thinking about that caused his stomach to turn a little and he looked down at the lace table cloth, fighting against the urge to pick at it as his mood sank once more. His emotions were all over the place lately, and it was starting to drive him crazy. One minute he was up, and then the next he was down. The only part was, it was getting harder to get back up every time he went down.

Some things (or people, that was what he really meant to say, but just didn't want to make himself feel as though he were becoming or had already become dependant on anyone) managed to keep it from getting too bad.

He sipped his wine, not feeling as dignified as what it usually made most people look. Drinking wine made him feel like a bit of a phony, actually; he wasn't classy. And it was classy people who drank wine. He had no business consuming it for that reason, and the reason that he had only taken one of his pills three hours ago. Bringing the glass back to his lips he took another rather inelegant mouthful of the drink. At least it wasn't bitter.

The phone in his pocket vibrated and he pulled it from his pocket, glancing inconspicuously at the screen and feeling his face warm pleasantly.

_love you grumpy bones. do  
me a favor and put a smile on?_

Cheeks warming pleasantly and unable to help but do as he was asked, Matthew ducked his head again and nudged the lawyer's ankle with the toe of his sneaker. Alfred laughed a little and leant across the small space between them, kissed the spot behind his ear and then gave his head a little shove away.

Pulling his phone back out, he quickly composed a reply as they returned to their idle discussion:

_love you too, love  
handles and all (:_

A moment later, when Alfred read the message he received, he looked up and over to the Canadian and shook his head.

"Damn your eyes, Williams," he said, with little to no conviction but a dead serious expression. "I'm going to kick your sorry, scrawny ass all over the place."

Matthew burst out laughing, clamping a hand over his mouth when the lawyer hit him on the shoulder.

Hauling his phone back own, the grin on his face wicked, he composed another short message and sent it to the lawyer seated next to him, watching him for his reaction.

_My ass may be scrawny  
but you sure do seem to  
like it quite a bit, huh Jones?_

Alfred turned as red as Chris' shirt and looked away, but placed his finger on his nose and slowly shook his head.

Score one for the Canucks.

Not that he was really keeping track anymore; his score had gotten pretty far up the chart compared to where it used to be.

Their food arrived within a half hour of ordering it, which was fairly impressive. It looked wickedy enticing. Matthew swallowed thickly, feeling his stomach growl angrily as he tenderly prodded at the crust-coated lamb chops he had on his plate, atop steamed, garlic butter-slathered asparagus and some interesting-looking pasta.

Beside him, Alfred had ordered some sort of soup as an appetizer and was still finishing it as the waiter laid down the other plates. It looked like Chris was having a steak as Vanessa had some sort of seafood platter. Then, as Alfred exchanged the empty soup bowl for a plate that had a rack of ribs or something of that nature, the two looked at each other and nodded, impressed.

At least the servings weren't meant for people who rarely ate; he was pretty sure that what was on Jones' plate could feed at least another two people.

Matthew's stomach growled again, and loudly at that. He wanted to eat _everything _at the table, or at least try some of it. Instead of being a glutton, he instead chose to slowly pick at his food while avoiding looking at (and doing his best to avoid smelling) the other meals at their table.

He just hoped dessert was an option as well.

Starting in on his meal, pushing away the sounds of Alfred and Chris' conversation which was a promise of a not-so-quiet dinner, he failed to notice how Vanessa was edging her chair closer. Physically, at that; it made low scraping noises as it crossed the floor and then thumps when she set it down heavily, pausing only to push her plate along as well. The discussion between the lawyers slowed to a stop for a brief moment just so they could stare questioningly at her, and her sole reaction was to give them a dirty look before returning to her mostly failing endeavour of subtlety.

(It was only a seventy percent failure given the fact that Matthew remained blissfully unaware of what was going on. He was fairly taken with the range of flavours on his terrifyingly delicate bone china plate that looked like it could have belonged to his late, great grandmother. Or like it might have been as fragile as his late, great grandmother; the china might have had a little more durability than her.)

"Psst, _Matt._"

Jerking out of the comfortable realm of his thoughts and turning to the suddenly much-closer-than-before Vanessa, he haphazardly wondered when that had happened before replying in kind.

"You should be my shopping buddy the next weekend you don't have to work."

Fork in his mouth, he stopped chewing and levelled his gaze on her. He peered over the rims of his glasses. "Don't you have Chris to carry your bags?"

(Chris snorted; he resented that.)

"Obviously," she scoffed as though it were something everyone should have already been aware of. It kind of was. "But I'm in need of a-"

Oh, no. God no. Matthew hung his head. She was just as bad as Jade - with whom he had gone shopping with the weekend before, actually. Greg said it was a fantastic idea for the simple fact that it got him out of shopping with her.

But there was no goddamn way she could be another Jade; she was too nice, and not nearly as brash, right? There was no goddamn way.

"-gay best friend to help me pick out some new outfits when I go out with the girls!"

Okay, so she _was_ another Jade.

Fucking_. Perfect_.

"Vanessa, how can I be your gay best friend when I'm not all the way gay?" he groaned. He was hoping they weren't being too loud so that everyone in the restaurant and their mother down the road or in the next county could hear them.

"Okay, well, how gay _are _you?" she demanded. "I need to know these things."

He shifted awkwardly, feeling the eyes of the people at the nearby tables settling on him. It was like putting a magnifying glass over an anthill on a scorching hot day in the dead of July. "I mean, I've only ever been in serious relationships with guys, but I've dated a handful of girls. And it's not like I find women repulsive or the concept of, um, doing stuff with them repulsive, either. Because I don't, and I have. Guys are just … more my type? T-This isn't appropriate dinner conversation," he spluttered in a shrill voice.

"Sure it is," crowed Alfred. "I know I'm finding this absolutely fascinating."

Leaning over to Alfred's plate and blocking the man's fork with a chunk of meat, he jammed it in Jones' mouth, effectively shutting the lawyer up before turning back to Vanessa with a polite smile. The smile showed zero malice as compared to what he felt. _Sorry for interrupting our conversation, but I just thought temporarily muting the village idiot would make things easier, do continue, would you? _

Into his hand, Chris coughed the word 'bipolar'. Alfred seemed to be outright choking.

"I'd say you're about eighty-three percent gay," Vanessa summarized, unfazed by the men's behaviour. "Which qualifies as just-as-gay-as-necessary in my books. So you're my gay best shopping friend. The end."

Chris leaned his weight on the table. "I wouldn't even try to argue," he advised. His wife's smile was both smug and jubilant. "You'll never win, even if you argue until your face turns blue or something. Trust me - I know these things first hand."

Once Alfred finally choked down what had been so brutally stuffed in his mouth - almost to the point of it being stuffed down his throat - he nodded. "He's right, Mattie. I've tried. And I've lost. I've watched Jeff and Allan try, and they've lost. I've watched Chris try, and frankly, I think he just gives up the moment it starts, y'fuckin' defeatist, just because they've been married two or three years or whatever."

"That's actually more of a reason for him to lose, really," said Matthew as he tentatively sliced some of the meat on his plate. It was tender to the point that the knife he used slid clean through it. He nearly moaned. That was how meat was supposed to be cooked. It was supposed to be tender enough to the point that it could just be peeled apart, or at least slid clean off the bone, not to the point that a chunk of rock flying through the earth's atmosphere would have more flavour and wouldn't be nearly as burnt or hard to bite into.

Turning to face the woman, Matthew opened his mouth, fully prepared to argue about it until the next decade if he had to. Instead of doing that, he pulled back and pressed his lips together in a tight, grim line. Vanessa was watching him expectantly; she was just _waiting _for his argument. So, choosing not to give her what she wanted (and simultaneously admitting defeat), he let out a growled '_this food is so fucking fantastic, I can't get enough of it_' before jamming some more into his mouth.

This was not the definite end of this - there was no goddamn way he was admitting defeat to anyone, no matter who they thought they were.

What this was, it was the beginning of a war. It just so happened that the first battle hadn't played out to meet his expectations.

Nothing major; he had fought plenty of battles in his short, twenty-two-years of scum-sucking existence. This was just a different battle - a battle of intellect.

A kind of battle he was good at.

A battle he had every intention of winning.

Sipping his glass of wine, Matthew sank back a little in his chair and narrowed his gaze as he watched the smug-looking pharmacist before him. She gave him a sly wink that made him fume internally, but he had enough gall to shoot one right back at her. This was definitely one he intended on winning. And the basking in that victory that would follow would be immense.

Alfred and Chris cackled quietly amongst themselves, the former saying, "We better look out; he's on the war path now and there ain't no stopping him until he wins."

"But he won't," protested Chris. "It's common knowledge and law of the jungle."

"Okay, so then we have another Middle Eastern conflict on our hands?" the other demanded. "If that's what's brewing, that could be bad."

"It usually is," grunted Matthew, deciding it would be best to let half-asleep dogs lie, even if it was just for now.

It might lie in the days ahead, or in the weeks ahead, but there would be a battle.

_And he would be the one to emerge victorious._

"So? Will you be my gay shopping buddy?" asked Vanessa excitedly. "Please? I mean, Chris is so boring and suggests clothing all in the same colour, Jeff's too busy and when he does go shopping with me all he ever does is point out things _he _wants to get. Like, that just defeats the purpose. And Alfred spends too much time complaining about wanting to go and do other things."

Chris turned to Alfred, cutting Matthew off when the Canadian was about to reply: "You've gone shopping with my wife? What? When?"

"Only two or three times," admitted the DA. The he turned to Chris' wife. "And honey, for the record, I don't do power shopping. I take three to four hours to go through a few small stores, and heaven forbid you bring me to Target or Macy's. I might not even leave. So seven or eight stores in two hours or less? That's straight up abuse."

"You're just not man enough to handle it," she sniffed in a disdain-filled voice. The tips of Alfred's ears turned pink. "Matthew on the other hand might be a little more capable of doing so. So what's the verdict?"

"While I think selling my soul for some hockey cards I already have might come of more value and future benefit, I would _love _to join you in your shopping endeavours for the simple fact that I love and revel in every chance I am given to prove that I'm better at something than Alfred, even if that 'something' happens to be power shopping." Matthew was smiling like a little asshole; not that he had to try. He had been born an asshole in his partner's opinion.

Alfred, on the other hand, looked like someone who had just sold their last shred of dignity to a baby prostitute.

Well played, Mr. Williams, well played.

"I do believe if I had any dignity remaining up until this point, that it just got up and threw itself over a balcony after stepping on a legion of legos," Alfred said as he topped off his glass of wine. His expression was grim.

"Let's just hope that dignity of yours wasn't wearing a noose or anything, because if it was, it ain't ever coming back, man," said Chris. He was gesturing with his fork as he spoke. "And you will never have another shred of dignity for as long as you live."

"How unfortunate," Alfred said. "That could probably suck a little."

"I didn't realize you had any dignity to begin with," quipped Matthew, "I mean, I always thought that was reserved for important people."

"So you're sleeping on the sofa tonight, fantastic," declared the lawyer with a clap of his hands. "I get the whole bed to myself tonight! Damn, this is going to be awesome!"

Vanessa looked up from her phone. "Honey, I'd give you about an hour before you started to whine about being lonely. Maybe even less than that, given the fact that you're a gigantic baby."

"What have I done to deserve being surrounded by verbally abusive, cynical, unusually cruel people?" He sounded disbelieving of his situation. Matthew just thought he was being whiney and needy and various things all rolled up and dumped in a cesspit of bratty emotions. Because Alfred was the Biggest Brat in the Big Apple. "I mean, I don't remember breaking any mirrors or selling anything on the black market, so why me?"

"It's what happens when there are people who love you who express their love for their friends in questionable ways," said Vanessa.

Alfred sipped his wine before settling back in his chair, placing his knife and fork on his empty plate. He was the last to finish, surprisingly. "Questionable methods usually cite questionable morals."

"Oh, don't spout that shit; it won't work with me, darling," she scoffed, waving off his backhanded insult with ease. "Everyone has questionable morals, especially when you work in the criminal justice system."

"She has a point," commented Matthew.

"Stuff it, Bacon," Alfred snapped.

Silence. Matthew looked bewildered.

"That's … a _new_ one," he said slowly. "Why?"

"Because Canadians and bacon go hand-in-hand? I thought it made sense."

Running his hands down over his face, 'Bacon' shook his head slowly before he turned to the other couple. The lawyer was cherry red from trying to keep himself from bursting out laughing. Vanessa had given up and seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"Can we go back to your place now? Please?" Matthew asked weakly, looking to Chris from behind his fingers. His face had turned stop sign red. "I don't think my dignity can handle being out in public anymore."

"Oh, honey, you're still so young and naïve," Vanessa crooned. She ran a hand soothingly along Matthew's curls. "When you're with us, you immediately surrender your dignity. It's almost like selling yourself into prostitution."

Matthew blanched despite his laughter, shaking his head. "Lovely comparison," he groaned. "At least you're kind of creative?"

Vanessa snorted. "I pride myself on it."

A moment later, Matthew's phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen, read the message and decided to ignore it. It was only a short one from Alfred, asking if everything was okay.

Things were fine, even if sometimes they managed to cut a little too close to home.

"Matthew's right," said Chris, standing and taking his jacket from the back of the chair and hauling it on. As Vanessa stood, he draped her jacket over her shoulders. "I think we've overstayed our welcome; did you see the dirty look the maître d' gave us? I think he was contemplating how much news coverage would happen if the four of us suddenly went missing without a trace."

"Well, unlike the rest of you, there's all of five people who would notice if I went poof," said Matthew. "But now if Hamburger here-"

"Oh my God, we have matching nicknames now! This is so cute!"

"-went missing, then holy shit look out they'd have the SEALS out for him," finished Matthew, ignoring the other's excited outburst. Alfred had his hand on the artist's jacket and then, unsure about what to do with it, he handed it over instead of putting it on him. A little act that Matthew appreciated; it kind of felt like he had a small portion of his masculinity preserved.

Unsure as to who was footing the bill, it seeming that Alfred and Chris were debating about whether or not they were going to split it, Matthew wandered outside the restaurant. He would have no involvement in their shenanigans.

The cold was a shock and it woke up him a bit, the warm atmosphere of the restaurant having lulled him into a cozy state that left him feeling doped up. The shock was a welcome one. It made his skin prickle, and the breeze that lifted his hair off the back of his neck was icy and made him shiver. He looked upwards, along the high-rises which consisted of primarily hotels and other fancy cookhouses, and found himself searching for stars or maybe even sight of the moon. Even after nearly ten years of living in the city, he was still foolish enough to try and catch sight of something that was far beyond his capabilities of mortal understanding. He was an idiot. Matthew sighed, lowering his head once more and watching where he walked when his feet nearly slipped out from beneath him.

If he could have it his way, he'd just go back to his place and sleep for the rest of the night. Maybe get Alfred to come back with him, watch a movie or two and drink some wine or lime soda (depending on the dwindling contents of his refrigerator; it had been almost a month since the last time he set foot in a grocery store), then curl up with him in bed and just sleep. Wake up the next morning and stay in bed until dinner, something they did more often than not, but it was because they both loved just being in bed and shamelessly cuddling as well as the fact that they were both comfort-seeking monsters. And if they stayed in bed all day, maybe they could watch some more movies or maybe they could read some books together, chat about the recent events in the news. Talk about the price of tea in China or the causes behind the extinction of the Dodo bird. Or maybe why cats were so attracted to balls of yarn. Anything would go, really.

No, though. He'd be a good little boyfriend and friend, and he'd go along with them and spend the evening with Chris and Vanessa, too. Even if the thought of proper social interaction, something he had been lacking for the past several weeks, made him want to jump ship with a nice, firm rope around-

"You ready to go, Space Cadet?" Alfred asked, practically enveloping him from the view of the others. Matthew started then nodded, looking back over his shoulder and giving the lawyer a half-cocked smile. Alfred was invitingly warm, a much better alternative than the bitter night and Matthew pressed back against him, sliding a hand along the lower part of his chest and burying into his body. He smelt spicy. Or, at least his jacket did. The scent of spices and a little bit like cigarette smoke lingered in the leather and lambskin material of the coat. A little part of Matthew hated how he made smoking attractive but, hey, some people just did. It was a sick sort of gift that the cigarette companies usually paid out royalties for.

"I guess," sighed Matthew. "There aren't any other alternatives, are there?"

Alfred pursed his lips. "Not a one." He reached into his jacket and removed a cigarette, and a flick of his wrist later, it was lit.

"Knew it."

Cigarette poised between his fingertips and the end nothing more than a red-hot glowing ember in the dark, Alfred kissed his temple, breath smoky. "Don't worry, it won't kill you," he teased, voice low as Chris and Vanessa joined them, the former hailing a cab at the curbside.

"Are you sure?" demanded his partner. "Like, completely?"

"Absitively posolutely, kid," said Alfred, running his hand through his hair. Matthew briefly wondered if a lit cigarette could catch the ends on fire. Call him cruel, but he thought it would've been hilarious.

Matthew gave a resigned sigh and cracked his neck, tipping his head to the side and rolling his shoulders. Well, maybe it wouldn't be too bad. This was Chris and Vanessa, after all. Everything that involved the two of them was generally a painless experience, as long as they were out of the scope of the public eye.

He'd contemplate jumping ship later on, but this time around he'd leave the rope home.

* * *

Hey guys, sorry for the ... delayed chapter. Like I said in the explanation on my profile, I lost some of the chapter, then had to rewrite it. But between the time I posted that explanation and posting this chapter, I've been insanely busy and sitting down and focusing on tying up loose ends was a little bit difficult for a tired mind. But I hope you all enjoy this late chapter, and Merry Christmas/Happy New Year/Happy Holidays/etc to you all.


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